


Sweet Tides

by Darling_Ghost



Series: Modern Assassins [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mindfuck, Modern Assassins, Multi, Politics, Porn With Plot, Russian Mafia, Threesome - F/M/M, aegon is hot, aged up Arya, assassin regrets, oligarchs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 45
Words: 115,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10165268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Ghost/pseuds/Darling_Ghost
Summary: The life he had carved out with his lovely girl after their last mission - it was enough.  More than enough.It was everything.Varys’ call, strangely insistent, was the first time he’d felt compelled to return to his duties.An existential threat to the balance of power.  And, just gathering information. Simple.Varys was good at wrapping his information in the most persuasive of words.He felt no particular allegiance to his new homeland, except that a lovely girl was American.  But he did have a bone and blood deep allegianceto her, and her dismay at the rising snakes in her political system...if this new mission could combat some of that...with no blood,he smiled wryly, well, then there was no reason not to help Varys, and, on some level, his beautiful and ravenous creature.  Just so.This is the sequel to Superior; set five years after the last scene. Graphic and explicit sex and violence.





	1. such a delicate flower

 

Just a test. A test to see if her lover could still pull information from the most recalcitrant of snakes.

 

Varys hadn’t promised that _nothing_ would happen. He couldn’t really. He did try to make Arya feel better about the whole thing...but he wasn’t very convincing.  

Now Jaqen, Jaqen hadn’t made her feel too much better either, but Jaqen was much more _convincing._

Varys had planted the seed. He had a strange request...from the US government, _a relatively simple assignment...perhaps Jaqen would be interested?_

Jaqen had perked his ears at this.

“Just a few months. Maybe four months at the most. Arya Stark. Four months for a girl to start to miss a man.”

They had half-whispered the conversation to the ceiling when he first brought it up, Arya clutching Jaqen to her and hoping that the darkness of the room would absorb his words, not allow him to remember in the morning.  

“Four months. No more.”  By morning light the words were still there.  He hadn’t forgotten.

“I really, really have to think about this Jaqen.”  Arya stirred her coffee. Jaqen always had it ready.  His own coffee, brewed in his own home...he brewed Turkish style, insanely strong, the grinds as fine as sand. 

He had a ritual. Arya adored it. He would wake up early and start the coffee. He would set the cups out at the table, pull out a dish with sugar cubes and some little spoons, and set everything up to wait for the coffee.  

Usually he’d go back into the bedroom and wake Arya up - sometimes she’d wake with his warm tongue lapping her, teasing her into a halfstate of bliss… and sometimes she’d wake to him singing loudly in the shower, rubbing his wet head on her afterwards.

No matter what, though, there was always that Turkish coffee, and on good days Arya could sit with him at the kitchen table and sit with him, starting to become more chatty as the first cup went down.

Mornings that were much less satisfying saw Arya wake up when Jaqen got out of bed, blearily pulling on clothes and papers and her laptop and pouring Jaqen’s coffee into a battered travel mug and rushing out the door.  Deadline. Deadline. Deadline.

She’d had a lot of those mornings lately.   _But not today._

She had just turned in her manuscript and her publisher had threatened to take her phone away, if she didn’t get any sleep.

She was on a mandatory press blockade... from her own publisher. Ironic.

And for the first time in many weeks she was pleasantly squirming as she woke, Jaqen’s long hair tickling against her thighs until she couldn’t feel her thighs anymore, couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t his tongue on her cunt. And she had time to sit and sip her coffee with Jaqen, and sit with him in the living room, and watch the sun stream in through the windows, and not go anywhere or do anything she didn’t want to.  

She had promised to talk to him about the little mission, today, too.

She snuggled into the armchair, facing him on the couch.  The sunbeams lit up his hair - she loved the way the silver streaks seemed to glisten, thickening at his temples.

“I’m allllll  yours today. I want - I want a glorious romp with you. And I want to go down to the water and lay around in it.  And I want to sit and play some stupid card game, or scrabble or something with you.”

A sly smile spread across Jaqen’s face and he sat on the couch across from her. “All of these things, and more, I will give you, Arya Stark.”

“And more?” Arya grinned. “What else could you give me?”

Jaqen fished in his pocket.

“A lovely girl needs no adornment, this is true. But there are times when a man would like to celebrate her accomplishments, and perhaps he would like to give her something beautiful.”

He held out a small black box, opened it for her. It was beautiful - unexpected, she felt her mouth gape - but beautiful, perfect for her. Plain, simple. One tiny round opal on a delicate silver chain. As he put it on it fell like a raindrop right at her collarbone.

“And perhaps a girl forgets what happened two years ago, on this date?”

_Shit. Shit. Arya had forgotten._

It was their anniversary.

“Ummm. Jaqen. I have something for you, too.” She decided to wing it. Oh she’d give him something, alright. He deserved it. She quelled the feeling of fondness rising on her face, the appreciation - his little bauble, perfect in its tininess.

“But you’re going to have to sit back.”

  
  


 

It was always a pleasure when a girl took the lead.  There was a vulnerability, a _giving_ when he would take her, a gift he would never tire of.  But when a girl did the _taking._..that was something else entirely.

 

He stilled the smile he felt. It would not do to rile her up yet. Pretending meekness, he waited for her next command.  

It was a sweet, intense pleasure to watch her in action.  Her teeth would glitter, and she’d have a certain turn to her mouth that he’d have to push himself back from kissing.  Her movements became more aware, as if the air itself was caressing her each move.  She radiated triumph, her eyes became suddenly cruel, intensely sexual.  He could never get enough.

He watched her now move over him and roughly undo the buttons of his pants.

_Yes, lovely girl, go ahead. I am yours._

He felt his cock freed, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. The opal flashed blue and red on her collarbones, but she still hadn’t taken her shirt off. _Pity._ He moved his hand instinctively to grab a breast, it’s fullness moving right in front of his eyes underneath the tee shirt.

_Thwack._

A little frisson of pain: Arya’s slaps could be hard, depending on how set her jaw was...and right about now a girl’s teeth were pushed out.   _That would leave a mark._

He smiled impudently at her insouciance. “Is this the type of gift a girl really wants to give?”

Oooooh now he had done it. He felt the corner of his lip move; he couldn’t help it.   _He knew what she saw._ He let her take his shirt off and let his body settle into the couch cushions, watching her not be able to keep her eyes off of his cock, waiting obediently for her next move. He lifted up one eyebrow - a dare.

So many little dares for her.  She took them all. A girl was driven, brave.

He was rewarded for crossing her.  She pushed him back, back against the couch and ungently spread his legs.  He lay in front of her, naked, his cock standing in between them, his hands waiting for her next command.

Or….not. She moved quickly - too quickly - over him.  A flurry of teeth and hair and lips and suddenly he looked down to see a hand palming his abdomen, white fingers raking down each muscle to settle around the base of him.

A thin glint, a spiderweb’s tendril of silver, encased the ring finger that was tightening, too much, around him.

He gasped.

“Noooo. This is mine, and I’ll tell you when you can make a sound.  Unless you want me to stop. And I don’t want to stop, so don’t try to make me angry right now, Mr. H’ghar.”

He couldn’t help himself. An angry girl, under the right circumstances, was a special sight. He grinned.

“How can a man tell you what he likes, so as to receive his best gift?”

_That would do it._

He smiled as she glared daggers at him before plunging down, the curtains of her hair over white marble shoulders and he felt her take him in, little shatterings of pain as her teeth skipped over the tender flesh.

He loved that he would completely fill her mouth, that her tongue would move to its own rhythm while her mouth had something else completely in mind, that moment when the tongue and the mouth conspired to suck him down so completely. He was as deep as he could be in her; insane, the sensation of her throat so tightly around him, _ahhhh ahhh lovely girl._..he could feel her mouth water and looked down, waiting to see her eyes sparkle with the effort, the tears brought by the herculean task of sucking him in so so deeply…

And cruel, cruel Arya, pulling her mouth off of him; he moved to keep himself in her but was met with a sharp slap, oh the contrast of it against that hot wet mouth he had just revelled in.

 _Now what does a girl want._  He felt himself twitch from the lack of her, every whisper of air that touched his shaft, wet from her mouth reinforcing the lack, the lack of her mouth.

Oh. Ohh.

Those little fingers moved into his mouth and he sucked as they passed his lips. And as quickly as they were given, they were withdrawn, and he followed her white fingers as they twirled around one of those nipples, pink and sugarsweet and stiff.  

_A man wants…_

He watched her fingers curve down and below his line of vision, and before he realized what was happening felt her engulf him, saw her take him into her, the contrast of her skin against the darkened, purpling of himself, slowly sliding into her...agony, the heat and the grip of it almost too much, too much to stop his hands, and he slid them up against the milkskin of her hips and moved her, closer and away, and watched as the cruelty left her face as she was consumed by him.

She pounded against him, slowed and sped and clung and he let her, let her take him wave by wave, until he couldn’t allow her to just ride him anymore, it was too too much and he looked up to see her tongue flick out against her lips as she breathed in and she was all over him and he couldn’t stop himself, the surge coming out of his cock, his mouth, stiffening his fingers and his core, and she whimpered as she felt him move inside of her, felt his seed come out and into her.

He was too sensitive and when he felt her move he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down to him to stop it.  Her breath was coming quickly, he felt the fluttering of her heart as she pressed her chest against his.

He reached for her mouth to kiss it, to thank her.

“My Arya Stark. My beautiful wife. You truly _are_ a man’s best gift.”

_A man could talk about the mission, later._

  
  
  


She’d been waiting for this night for quite some time.  

He was notoriously fickle; had always been, even the first time they met.  At that time he’d stopped in his tracks, eyes moving up and down her legs and lingering at her neck only to meet her eyes and hold them for a few seconds too long.  As the fates would have it, their paths _couldn’t_ cross then, and she made sure to leave him with just enough of a soft lingering kiss on the cheek, amber and red and white engulfing him and then leaving, not looking back.  She’d had other duties.   _It was a regret._

No matter.  The timing was infinitely better now. And all good things come to those who are patient, bide their time, prepare themselves.

Cyprus at sunset.  Time slowed, no one on the island was immune to the sun dipping slowly over turquoise and indigo swells, a glorious ending to another bucolic day, a transition into a hedonistic night.  

And as the sky shrugged off the sunsets pink embrace, the bucolic heat of the daytime morphed into an increasing frenzy of activity as partygoers and expats prepared themselves for the nightlife of Limassol.  The ancient city hummed around her and she drew her breath in as she escaped the sidewalk into a door, opened for her by a faceless bellhop, marble floors beneath her, the blinding white walls ornamented simply enough to allow the ultrarich nationals that patronized this bar to imagine themselves as whatever demi-gods they wanted to be.

One more door led her into the the darkened bar and she pulled a seat to a tall table, crossing and recrossing her legs.  He was late. Of course. The world ran on his time.

No matter. She was ready.

She straightened the ruby at her neck and waved away the server who appeared and then vanished.  She’d wait, she’d wait all night if she had to.  She’d already waited two years.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror across the room and smoothed her hair off her shoulders. In the dark room it looked almost black, but each time the light glinted on it a spark of dark red glowed.  Her cheekbones jutted out in relief and she looked at herself appreciatively.  She had ripened, since she met him the first time.

She was ready to be picked.

Her patience was rewarded a few minutes later as she saw him: tall and impossibly fair, his steps lithe and purposeful - and everything around him disappeared from her vision as he walked towards her.

“Melissandre.  It’s been too long.”

  
  
  
  


Jaqen had outdone himself.   _Again._ Rack of lamb, rosemary and mint pesto, a little salad from his garden. They took dinner outside and sat on the deck, the tranquil sounds of the early evening and the river punctuating their comfortable silence.

Arya felt like she was in some sensory heaven, her muscles stretched and sore with the delightful, always wanting of her trysts with him briefly sating her, and then compelling her to want more.   They’d played all day long; her first day without anything pressing on her to-do list for months.  The entirety of the summer, sadly engulfed - but her book was just about done, and her editor had promised - no, _threatened_ \- to take a full two weeks to look it over.  Arya was free, free for the next few weeks, free to lounge around with Jaqen; free of the frenzied commutes to New York City; free to run and play in the woods of their upstate property, to jump off the flat rocks into the river that gurgled and swelled behind her house.

 _Jaqen’s_ house.

Jaqen’s first house.

He’d made a point of paying for the land with his own money, taking almost a year to find the perfect property.  He’d make pilgrimages, camping on the land to see how the light broke through the trees in the morning, sketching.  A full winter in Chicago avoiding the weather - Arya always teased him that he was such a delicate flower -  with architectural drawings neatly stacked out all over Arya’s too small flat.  He’d spend hours frowning at angles, excitedly showing her elevations, shade estimates, floorplans. - and the result, finally built, was an airy modern structure, comfortable, completely open yet private in the woods, the invisible eyes of a Varys recommended security system webbed around their property.

This was their first summer in their house - his house - and Arya laughed when she caught him looking at the angles of the roof or the composition of the rooms with almost as much fondness as he looked at her.

“Arya. A girl has promised, no?”

He’d pushed his plate away and stretched, nibbling on an errant piece of lamb from the bone.

Yes.  She had.

“Varys says this is only for a few months?  So, what, I won’t see you until Christmas?”  Arya tried not to be petulant...tried really, really hard.

Jaqen sighed. “At the latest, beloved. It’s relatively simple. No blood.”  He smiled. _He wishes there was blood involved,_  Arya thought.  Jaqen hadn’t practiced his...trade...in several years.

Not since Jaime.

“So. Tell me about it.  Convince me.”  Arya grinned. She couldn’t deny him, not if he really wanted to go...and she could use the time handling all of the little details that would come up after her publisher gave her the go-ahead...but she wanted to see him _work_ for it.

Jaqen cocked his eyebrow at her and she smiled to see the slant of his eyelids.  “Apparently, this could be very much to a girl’s liking.  There are many who exploit the new administration - and have for many years.  The political pressure has built up to a crescendo, yet a man’s target is completely insulated from it.  Strange, because a man’s target is completely entangled.”

“Jaqen. Come on. Just tell me.” Arya groaned. Sometimes she loved the way he danced around a subject, drawing her in with those eyes and that voice.  And sometimes she just needed him to _tell_ her whatever the fuck was happening in his head.

“A girl takes away all of the fun.” He smiled at her. “There is a man whose family is involved in money laundering at the highest order; he’s currently in Cyprus but his family is from Russia. His fortune, as well.   Normally this would be beneath our order, but in this case, the money this man is laundering is going directly to completely overtake all of the democratic elections in the EU.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed.  “One of those. Impenetrable. Impossible to put the last links of the chain together, even after so many half ass investigations.  It’s so fucking obvious that there’s a connection but no one has been able to figure out the _why_ of it.”

_Intriguing._

“So what are YOU supposed to do?  Kill him?”  Arya grabbed her wine glass.

“Ahhh, no. In this instance we have no protection from any of the international agencies if this snake falls. A man will go and learn what he can, and report back. Then perhaps others can finish the job.  No blood, darling girl, a man has said.”

“To Varys? Who’s driving this?”  Arya tried not to ask too many questions - she’d get better information if she waited for him...she’d already asked him to just tell her...she quelled her impatience, took a drink of wine to still herself.

“The Americans, but not the government directly. The deep state. Their intelligence is hamstrung and their agencies are fumbling all over themselves.  They need a different….angle.”  Jaqen’s face got that arrogant look on his face, that arrogant look that she loved.

She looked at him carefully. He was trying not to show it, but he was excited. She knew him too well.  She saw the muscle in his bicep tighten as he tried to hold himself calmly, noted the little muscle under his jaw.

She smiled. Her lover. They could not deny each other _anything._ There was no reason to.

“Jaqen. Go ahead. But...I have to be able to come see you. I can’t go four months without seeing you.”  She fingered the little opal at her neck. _Four months. Four months is forever._

He smiled, really smiled - the kind of smile where his teeth showed.  “That was _exactly_ what a man was hoping for.”

“And…” Arya twirled her glass until the wine almost flew out of the top, then slowed it down. “And...a man will pay. Over and over again, for all of the times that his lovely bride will miss him while he’s gone.”

“This, too, is what a man had hoped for.” His smile turned suggestive.

“Starting...now.”  Arya set her glass down and wriggled in her chair.   _Oh a man would pay, alright._

 

 

Lunch.  She had been waiting for it. Since...their last lunch.

Sansa’s excitement was building. The house was quiet.  Willas wouldn’t be home for hours - Sansa had all afternoon to herself.

But she’d _share_ a few hours of the afternoon with Petyr.

It was always a pleasure to get ready for him.  She loved watching his face change as he took her in; loved seeing the results of her care come to life as his eyes were briefly overwhelmed by her.  She was careful, every single inch of her skin prepared, the act of preparation almost as satisfying as her own undoing of it after lunch.

Oh, he never touched her - she wasn’t ready to cross that line - but the frenzy that she worked herself up to after those lunches...well, that was how she’d spend the _rest_ of her afternoon to herself.

_Soon, soon._

Sansa was in love with him, felt the danger of him, the overwhelming carnality of him, the sly intelligence of him - all of it laid bare for her and her alone; the urgency overwhelming even as they restrained themselves.

Petyr was patient, more patient than she'd dreamed.  He confined his desires to words, spoken, written...words that translated to intention, that worked her up so completely that she'd awaken in the night dreaming of a scenario that he'd written her into.  She wasn’t ready to leave Willas, to handle the social reproach that would come with such a scandalous move.  It would completely rock Chicago. She needed to prepare.

It was still just a dream, another world - they built castles in the air together, and Petyr obediently waited, waited for her, his dark eyes burning as they spoke.  The secret was heavy, overripe, hanging between her and Willas.

  
_Soon. Soon._


	2. tender trap

 

The horses were fat and full of themselves.

Jon finished mucking the stable and leaned up against the trough as the big bay nudged up against him.

“No more, Varg, no more.” He put his fingers over the soft muzzle and felt the pleasant whuffing of breath against his palm, the tickly whisker on Varg’s chin pricking his skin.

Ygritte was visible in the field, the yellow light of afternoon catching on her red hair like a flicker of flame.  She’d hopped up on the younger chestnut - that one, full of piss and vinegar and not enough training.  No saddle, no bridle, and that damned horse was trying to spook her off of it, but still she clung, like a barnacle, the muscles in her legs tight and her voice, deep but with a high reedy edge trying to soothe it.

The chestnut would take a few steps and then give a halfhearted buck, and still she clung.

 _Fuckin’ Ygritte. Wild creature yourself._  He smiled; she didn’t see, she was focused only on clinging to the chestnut.

He watched her playing in the field and then turned back to the barn.  He was just about done - he wanted to get everything wrapped up before he and Ygritte had to head back to Marquette. New semester started, and _Professor Jon_ wouldn’t be able to come to Winterfell but more than once a week until Thanksgiving.

At least Jory had some help, now - Jon wouldn’t have to worry about him falling on an icy path.  Two new groundskeepers, good kids, had widened the paths and stocked everything, split an enormous amount of wood.   _Good._ Arya had insisted on making sure that Jory was set up;  an armchair sat next to a woodstove in the barn now, so that Jory could sit if he wanted to in the stable during the winter.

Jon rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly while he waited for Ygritte to finish. He didn’t want to call to her, didn’t want to interrupt whatever bond her and that horse had, didn’t want her to fall off two days before the new semester and the town exploded with college students. _He didn’t want her to fall off and come swinging at him, either._

When she finally came in her eyes were laughing, her face screwed up in pleasure. Last time she had tried that on the chestnut, she’d only lasted a few minutes before hitting the ground with a soft thud and a sharp string of curse words, turning on her heel to jump back on before the horse could bolt.  

“Hey you. Did ya see that?” She smiled up at him, reached for him.  White and red and freckles and that impertinent little nose coming to his face, smelling like hay and grass and _her._ He kissed her.

“I did. I can’t believe you stayed on him for so long.” He kissed her again.

“Ah, Jon, you have no faith, that’s why.” Her voice...laughing and sassy and cutting like a machete right through him, every time.

“Oh, I have faith, alright.  I have faith...and I worry, too, to balance all of it out.” Jon smiled.

“Worry is for old women, Jon.  So..don’t.”

His arm snaked around her waist and they started to walk back up to the main house.

“This old woman thinks we should get back to Marquette, order a pizza, and call it a day. We have one day before term starts.” He pushed a finger in to tickle her, marveling at the tight, wiry muscles he felt.

She laughed and jumped away from him, featherlight, starting to run up to the house, bounding; a deer, a squirrel, a bird...not a mere human female.  She was...too quick, too alert, too... _everything._

Jon felt his blood surge and ran up towards her.

Stopping at the crest of the hill, right before the house, something caught his eye out on the sparkling surface of the lake.  

_Coast Guard.  Again. What the fuck?_

Boats had been on Lake Superior, going up and down the shoreline. Sometimes three or four boats at a time.  It was something that he’d never seen at Winterfell - just one at a time when he did see them, when they’d been on search and rescue missions.  But now, at least daily, he’d see Coast Guard boats moving up and down the coast; seen weapons on deck - very, very, very strange.  Homeland security uniforms. Border Patrol.

Ygritte’s laugh snapped him out of his thoughts just before a very sharp slap on his ass banished that reverie completely.  

“Jon. Come on. _Old woman._ Slow, slow, slow old lady. If you’re just going to be all moony and standing around, we might as well do it in the big city.”

 _Fucking Ygritte._ Marquette had maybe just over 20,000 people in it. Biggest city she’d ever been in. Most mouthy, eye-rolling, irresistible woman he’d ever met in the world.

He smiled and saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her mouth went fierce. “Ay, that’s what I want to hear for the rest of the night. All night. Yes, _Ma’am_.”

  


 

 

Sansa knew what patience tasted like.  It tasted like lukewarm tea, sitting in the kitchen with Willas, the cloying feeling of his big brown eyes watch her fondly.  It felt like the stiffened wax of the mask she kept on her face, the ache of a gracious smile that she had pasted onto her mouth.  

It looked like the balance sheet of her bank accounts, accruing as she moved her assets slowly, slowly out of a shared kingdom into her own rebellious state.

Patience, after a while, started to feel like an animal trapped in her body, trying to claw its way out, as Sansa kept the same happily neutral face smiling out at the world.

_Enough. It had been long enough._

Sansa had a plan.

It wasn’t Willas’ fault.  His innocence was the thorn in her plan.

Willas had indulged her; he smiled at her in that patronizing, fond way that a parent smiles at their beautiful child; his questions too broad, too general - they could have been directed at anyone, any client, any neighbor.  Certainly those smiles had no insight, nothing to do with what Sansa felt underneath the mask, electric, pulsating, _alive._

She knew what a cage felt like, too - a cage of warm embraces and superficial conversations and the proper, fumbling touch of a man who didn’t know how to fuck her, didn’t see her struggling, didn’t know her at all.  

Petyr had indeed been patient. His eyes would burn her, hot and hard as they lunched, and she could gage his impatience by the fingers that would reach up to his little beard, stroking the hairs, his lips just underneath.  Sansa would watch his mouth and shiver as she got an inkling of his cruelty, of the machinations he was capable of - no, that he _loved_ , his nature devious and selfish except for her, her her.

 _That_ patience was for her, and her alone.

She had to practice a _different_ kind of patience when Petyr would leave town, interrupting their meetings - weeks at a time,  business trips here or there, and Sansa would sit in her hardwood and crown-moulded cage at home, nodding and smiling as Willas spoke to her, wondering just what exactly Petyr was up to, as he traveled to Europe and Russia and occasionally to the Far East.   

_Some business, darling, and slightly...unpleasant  - these people don’t understand the extent of their own power, don’t understand how it all threads together._

_But you do, of course you do._

_Yes, sweetling, I do; and I let them know as much as they need to know._

He’d tell her little bits about his work when he returned, and Sansa would shiver at the forbidden nature of it, the very blackness in his face registered by his eyes, flush with both his own power, his allegiance only with himself...and his return back to her. _Her._  She was part of his tangle of secrets. She knew what he was capable of, a dose of rohypnol in a glass of fine French red. Velvet glove in an iron fist. And she was the only thing he was powerless _against._

It was...seductive.  

Especially when paired against Willas, sweet, loyal Willas.  The tender trap.

Willas would find out soon enough.  Sansa’s escape was laid out, planned, the occasion marked with a small black asterisk in her head, the minutes thumping slowly towards her freedom.  

  
  


 

  
  


Jaqen loved to watch his girl in the river and he stood in front of the massive living room window, a flash of pale skin in the dark water.

He knew her, knew her mind, knew the insides of it as he did his own.  And he saw her, saw that she’d built herself up to a fever dream of stress and tiredness. Knew that the book would come out, and even though she was publishing it under a pen name, that she was nervous about retribution.

The creative process of writing it was one thing.  It suited a girl’s quick mind.  The endless edits and meetings and all of that...well, that was no way for such a wild creature to spend her time.  He saw it wear on her.

She needed to be out here, to be outside, to move through the woods and river to break her fever.

 _Of course there were other ways to make her fever break._ He watched her lithe form break through the water, felt his mouth curve unbidden.  

She had agreed, of course, to Varys’ little project.  Side project.

Their _last_ project felt like a lifetime ago. Watching her stand over Cersei’s body, knife in hand, blood dripping from the little hurts that Cersei had inflicted...that image, once he was able to wipe away the sheen of worry from the memory...the vision of his bride, drenched in Cersei’s blood...it was... _compelling_.

Afterwards.  A flurry of activity, unseen by Arya, to determine where they’d be safe. A threat assessment by Varys, and some lingering...issues...handled.  Arya’s degree, and then a hazy, languid sex and sun soaked year in Belize.   _A reward._

And then a _life_. A house in the woods, many trips to a girls frozen homeland, both of them working as they wanted under assumed names; a writer and an architect, peppering their work with travels, overlaid with an enthralling, engulfing domesticity. For the first time in many years, Jaqen had stayed in one place, felt a contentment grow within him, radiate out of him.

The life he had carved out with his lovely girl after their last mission - it was enough.  More than enough. _It was everything._

Varys’ call, strangely insistent, was the first time he’d felt compelled to return to his duties. _An existential threat to the balance of power.  And, just gathering information. Simple._ Varys was good at wrapping his information in the most persuasive of words.

He felt no particular allegiance to his new homeland, except that a lovely girl was American.  But he did have a bone and blood deep allegiance _to her_ , and her dismay at the rising snakes in her political system...if this new mission could combat some of that... _with no blood,_ he smiled wryly, well, then there was no reason not to help Varys, and, on some level, his beautiful and ravenous creature.  Just so.

He could not watch her any longer.  He knew that her skin would be cold from the river; he knew that she’d be tired after the water, that she’d writhe under him, over him, in front of him; that he could take her over and over again, slowly warming her skin even as the rosebud of her pleasure would open, always hot and wet and pink, just for him; captivating him, begging to be sucked and bitten and then plundered, claimed; tightening around his cock, her whimpers and mewls becoming more urgent as he fucked her, fucked her, watching her breasts move from the force of his thrusts, her mouth opening, taking himself someplace beyond all reason and logic.

He was impossibly hard; the thought of taking her was one thing, but taking her was something else.  

His erection jutting in front of him, he walked, slightly stiff legged, out of the house to meet his beloved.

  


 

  
  
  


Another perfect weld. Little “dimes”, neatly stacked, the red metal cooling.

They’d been busy.

He wasn’t Thoros’ manual labor anymore, although he wouldn’t have minded if that was all he was.

No, now, he had artistic input - and each one of the impossible sculptures that originated in the strange maelstrom of images and influences from Thoros’ mind would be made even stronger by the work that Gendry did.

It was...satisfying.

Not lucrative, though.

Their name had gotten out.  A steady drip drip drip of local shows and press morphed into a full calendar - and not just little galleries and bars.  Thoros had charmed the press, and Gendry played his foil; serious, quiet, hardworking to Thoros’ genius.

And after a few years, that had done it, and they’d taken more work than they could possibly handle.

This next show was big. SF MOMA. A lot of visibility.

And a lot of work to do….

 

Gendry pushed his mask off and grabbed his water bottle.  It was fucking hot, it was always hot, it was ridiculously hot in his workshop - but the fact that it was another Indian summer in Chicago meant that his workshop had no chance against the external blistering temperatures.

He stood for a moment, looking at his work.  The angles, the angles somehow managed to feel ethereal and yet totally solid; heavenly sculpture built out of steel.

This piece is almost done. No...this piece is almost halfway done.  No….

He sighed and pushed his mask back on his face, put the heavy gloves back over his sweaty arms.

Thoros walked in, pushing back his scraggly hair, today’s mail in his hand and then strewn out over the kitchen table they kept in the shop.  He let out a low whistle when he looked at Gendry’s work.

Gendry staunched his smile. Let Thoros get emotional, let Thoros say the words.  Thoros was brilliant and quick and mouthy.  Gendry knew his place, he liked it.

“Some weird mail for you, here.  Verrrry official. I had to sign for it.”  Thoros laughed and pushed a cream colored envelope towards Gendry.

He started to pick it up, thought the better of it as his gloves smudged the envelope, and removed a glove only to frown at the sweaty fingerprints that appeared as he opened it. Now what the fuck is this. Again.  

His eyes flickered over the paper, irritated.

 

_Mr. Waters:_

_Our firm needs to speak with you on a manner of most urgent import.  The nature of our discussion is extremely sensitive and as such will only take place in person, preferably in our New York office._

_Upon verification of genetic identity, our firm has identified you as the sole and lawful heir of “XX” Trust.  The identification of the trust will remain anonymous until the benefactors conditions have been met._

  _….._

 

Another one of these. Someone had put his name on their list, alright.  He’d been getting these letters for the past month now.  The first one coincided with an alert from his bank; someone had accessed his account from Russia, _are you traveling, Mr. Waters?_ He changed his password to _Fvck0ff_ afterwards, a tiny bit of satisfaction after the intrusion.

‘Sole and lawful heir.’ _What a load of bullshit._ Registered mail, this time, though _...convincing._

He snorted. They were after the wrong guy. _Couldn’t they tell how broke he was when they spied on his bank accounts?_

Thoros looked up from opening his own mail, sighing as he put down the bright yellow alert of a bill that needed to be paid, yesterday.

“What was that?”

Gendry rolled his eyes, balled up the letter and threw it in the forge.  He put his gloves back on.  Time to get to work.

“Absolutely fucking nothing. Again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing a sequel - and just realizing that some readers might not have a frame of reference for this AU.
> 
>  
> 
> [ For an explanation of Jaqen's work in this AU read this: ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8872639/chapters/20811142)
> 
>  
> 
> thanks!


	3. natural born heirs

Finally. Sansa had worn this mask long enough. It was time to rip it off.

A black asterisk hung over today, today, today in Sansa’s head.  Today was the day.

She had showered, absentmindedly soaping herself, excitement and guilt and happiness chasing around in her head.  She got out and carefully stepped on the rug, although she did not feel her feet, did not feel her body....she was leaving. She was leaving him.

The anticipation of leaving the smothering embrace of her marriage, the already-known conversations...Sansa realized that she was holding her breath, exhaled, and then held it again.

To mark the occasion, she had bought a present that was _slightly_ out of character for herself - and _something that she hoped Petyr would like to unwrap._  As she eased the tiny bra around her, she felt the pine green silk glide over her skin, wrapped in black lace, her skin standing out in relief through the pattern.  

Oh, he’ll like this.

She had packed, very simply, one flat small suitcase - once all of the dust settled, she’d come back for the rest. Or maybe _never come back, ever again,_ maybe never have to put her foot down in this flat again, where the air stilled and filled her lungs like cement, where her fingers twitched with impatience, where family photos stared down at her with judgment, where she could feel his presence no matter where he was in the house, where the life she _thought_ that she would have when she married him withered and died under the weight of its own ‘happily ever after’ expectations.

Nothing is happily ever after. She could leave it all, if she needed to.

She had only slid on a pair of pants and was standing with her shirt in her hands when she heard footsteps in the hallway, the familiar trudge along the wood floors. _He’s home?_

Willas never came home in the middle of the day. _Never._ She could set a watch to his schedule, it never deviated. Six, six p.m., that’s when he’d leave the office, gathering his briefcase, walking down the street, dedicated, devoted.  The front door would open at 6:25. That’s how it worked.

_What the fuck is he doing home? What the fuck, fuck fuck?  THIS is not how it’s fucking supposed to work?!!_

She didn’t have time to do anything besides shove the suitcase with her foot so that it was out of his line of sight before he walked in the bedroom door.

Sansa tried to keep her placid, pliant mask on as Willas walked in, a strange, mournful look on his face.  

“Willas! Is something wrong?”  Her voice didn’t belong to her, it was too high...of course something was wrong, everything was wrong...

He didn’t answer her and just walked over to her and held her, hugging her tightly against him. Her heart was thumping, and her arms obeyed, automatically rising around his neck as he stood there silently, swaying while he hugged her and then drooping down to her side, shirt dumbly still in her hand, even as he clung to her. _What is going on?_ He is oblivious to the fact that she’s finished the embrace, that her eyes are darting around the room, that he was hugging a statue.  

She heard a snuffle as he finally pulled back from her and sat on the bed.  “Sansa.”  A look of appreciation broke through the mournful look and he touched a hesitant, too gentle finger to her side, looking at the green silk.  “Oh, Sansa, beautiful Sansa. Is that new?”

Sansa flushed - _caught_. She hurriedly shrugged the shirt over her head. “Yes, darling, but what is the matter? Why are you home right now?”  She turned away from him so that he wouldn’t catch the rising flush on her face.  He wouldn’t sense it, anyhow. He wouldn’t sense anything...

His voice stopped her movements; it pitched in a strange mix of need and annoyance.  “Can I _just_ see my wife? Can you _just_ stand there, so that I can look at you?”

He started to cry.

Sansa had only seen Willas cry a few times.  Their wedding, one of them - those big brown eyes had teared up as she walked up the aisle, small tears had dripped down his face as they stood in front of each other and God and all of Chicago’s elite; salt from his lips in her mouth as they shared their first marital kiss.  

She had felt it was so romantic then; later she felt like it had cursed them, starting their new life without triumph, from a place of weakness. Now a wave of irritation moved over her.   _What is he doing here?_

“Sansa, Sansa.  We have to go home.”  His voice snuffled as he spoke to her.

“Willas...we _are_ home? What is going on?”

“We have to go to Highgarden.  Grandmother died.”

Sansa’s irritation turned cold in her throat. Shit. _Olenna Tyrell._ The tycoon, politician, sharp tongued, all-seeing grandmother.  She reached for Willas again. Willas had adored her.  Oh, this is _not_ good.

“I am so, so sorry.” She stood in front of him as he sat, rocking his head against her, rocking him like a child. She put her chin on top of his head; her eyes were frantically racing around the room.   _Oh Willas._   

And Petyr. Fuck. Fuck.

She couldn’t leave right now. She couldn’t leave for a while.  Sansa was willing to anger some of Chicago by leaving Willas...but not as he mourned the woman he had idolized, the woman that had doted on him, famously softening for him even as her words were poisoned barbs for anyone else.

“Oh Willas. I’m so sorry.  What happened?”  She had to keep talking, talking, talking, try to distract herself from the flinch she felt as his fingers touched her, even as she held him against her so he wouldn’t see her face, processing her next move, eyes darting around the room.  

He snuffled. “Heart attack. Over breakfast.”

His arms closed in around her, the cage the cage she had almost escaped closing in around her.

She couldn’t leave today. She couldn’t leave Willas the day his grandmother died.  Olenna Tyrell’s death might make the national news; Sansa leaving the Tyrell heir _on the very date_ of that death would surely reverberate through the tabloids. Sansa could handle a little Chicago gossip, she expected it. But there was a difference between leaving for passion - anyone could understand that - and the coldhearted betrayal of a grieving, upright man.

And Willas didn’t deserve _that,_ he didn’t deserve any of it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She tried to keep her mask on but she felt her own emotions slip through the cracks of it; her lip twitching as she tried to keep the tears in.  A maelstrom of guilt, of annoyance, of impatience...and worry.   _Petyr._  He was waiting for her. She was supposed to meet him at his flat in an hour.

She stood there, feeling Willas’ arms around her with distaste, and let him snuffle himself into silence.

After a while he pulled away from her, and she forced herself to wipe his tears off his face with a fingertip and pulled a small, brave smile for him.

“She loved you so much, Willas. And she did just about anything that she wanted to do, on her time, in her own way.” She pushed her face to look comforting, staring at his forehead, hoping that he wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t looking in his eyes.

She couldn’t.

She had imagined this leaving, all of it; walking out the door, the effervescent feeling of freedom bubbling through her, the feeling of walking into Petyr’s arms and being able to sink into them.  She could not, however, imagine the look on Willas’ face.

He hadn’t been disappointed by her, yet.

She steeled herself.  And he won’t be now, not yet. This is too delicate...this needs to be handled gently, gently.

She grabbed her phone from the bed casually and slid it into her pocket. “There...I’m going to make you some tea, and we’ll figure out what we need to do, okay?”

Willas smiled, a sad thing on his face, and he nodded.  “Thank you. Yes, I need to get to Highgarden.  I’ll book us tickets?”

A thought flashed through Sansa’s mind.  And a lie fell from her lips. “Willas, I need to meet you down there after tomorrow. I have a board meeting, and from there I can free myself up for the next few weeks.”

He nodded, disappointed but understanding: obligations are obligations, even if they’re connected to a non-profit social board.

Once Sansa had made it down the hall and into the privacy of the kitchen she pulled out her phone and sent a text.

_Petyr. There’s been an emergency. I can’t leave now. Tell you the details later._

She slumped against the countertop as she waited for the kettle to hum, feeling that cement fill her lungs, cover her limbs, slow her down….and then the buzz of her phone broke the spell.

_I trust that you’re not changing your mind?_

What to tell him. She didn’t know what to do yet.  She looked at the message, trying to figure out the words, when her phone buzzed again.

_You’ll have to make it up to me, darling._

  
  
  


Gendry pulled a swig of his beer.  Cold, ice cold; he sat on his stoop and felt the humidity of the day start feel a bit less oppressive.

 _Good day._ A lot of work done. He had one more piece to finish before he feel comfortable with what was left, but everything _looked_ amazing.

He loved this feeling. His muscles ached, he was hot - and filthy, he knew that the quick wipe of his face didn’t get the soot off of him...but he was tired, he had done good work, and there was more to do tomorrow.

He leaned back and took another drink.  In his pocket his phone rang.  He picked it up without looking at it and answered.

_Mistake._

“Mr. Waters; Gendry, is that correct?”  A man’s voice.

“Yeah, who’s this?”  Gendry scowled. _Now what?_ He had gotten two more of those letters this week…

“Mr. Waters - or Gendry, if I might.  My name is Tyrion Lannister.  I am a lawyer working independently on something that I think you’ll find of great interest.  My apologies for the phone call, in the evening, but my repeated attempts at contact have been ignored.  I thought I was going to have to come out and find you myself and drag you to my office, and that would likely be quite impossible.”  The deep voice gave a laugh.

Gendry rolled his eyes.

“Look, Ty-”

“Tyrion.”  The voice managed to sound regal and as if it were stifling a laugh.

“Tyrion. You have the wrong guy. I doubt that there’s anything of interest about me to you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so hasty to judge that. I need to speak to you, preferably in my office in New York. I can fly you out here.”

“Why would I...I’m not interested, in whatever you’re selling. And can you stop sending me letters?”  Gendry slammed  his beer down on the porch.

“Selling?” The man laughed. “Aren’t you at all curious? Listen, Gendry. There’s a very big possibility that you stand in line to inherit a substantial amount of capital. I have a will in front of me that specifies natural born heirs. And I have some heirs...who are not ‘naturally born.’ Do you know your father, Gendry?”

Gendry swallowed. _How did…_ His curiousity piqued. “No,” he admitted.

“Well then. It sounds like you have a lot to gain, if nothing else a quick trip to New York City on my dime.  Let’s meet.  Can you leave tomorrow?”

“I...no….”  

“Very well. Next Monday. I’ll send another envelope with the tickets once they’re purchased. You _did_ receive our mail, didn’t you?”  Another smooth laugh.

Gendry put his hand in his hair.  “Umm. Yeah. All of it.”

“Next Monday it is, then - don’t throw this envelope out. I’ll include meeting details, your hotel information, all of that. Very well.”

With a click, the man got off the phone and Gendry shook his head to clear it. What had just happened?

He needed to call Thoros.  And, he needed another beer.

  
  
  
  
  


Arya curled around Jaqen’s suitcase.  Watching him pack was infinitely entertaining.  She tried to guess at who he’d need to be, once he left; he’d given her some details, but it was always interesting to see how he’d weave them together.

Two suits - the one suit that he looked so incredibly handsome in, that he could only wear if he were meeting her out and about, otherwise she’d rip it off of him.  

“Ooooo. You’re going to be fancy on this trip, aren’t you?” She toyed with the handle of the suitcase and stretched out on her back, letting her head fall of the bed, watching him upside down.

“A man is always fancy, no?”  He grinned at her. He had military fatigues, cut off at his knees on and was shirtless.  They’d been out in the woods earlier, and she’d pulled pine needles out of his hair as they sat in the sun.  

He didn’t need to be fancy. He was elegant; the beautiful line, the philtrum, between his nose and lips was long, the nose aristocratic, the lips full.  He was elegant. He’d be elegant in anything.

_Especially in that suit._

Arya chewed her lip. She watched him, upside down, as he moved in the room.  

She’d miss him.  Hadn’t been away from him for more than a day or two in five years.  Maybe too long.  Just a few months, she’d go visit him...finish her book, finish some work around here, maybe visit Jon.  Or grab Sansa and head out to visit Robb; his company was doing really well and he’d been too busy to come east to visit them.  

But she’d miss him, _didn’t matter how many little quick trips she made, didn’t matter how busy she kept herself._ ..she knew that she could fill every single minute of every single day and yet still when she’d lay down at night she’d miss him; that when she woke up in the morning and made her own barely passable imitation of his coffee that she’d miss him; that in the middle of the day she’d think of him suddenly and the ache would be _even worse_ because he wouldn’t be able to tease her out of it, slipping his fingers around her and breathing in her ear.

She rolled her eyes at herself.  She’d miss him. But she’d be fine.

Jaqen closed the suitcase and put it on the ground and flopped himself - _elegantly_ , Arya thought - onto the bed, pinning her under his arms and planting shivery kisses on the side of her neck.  She squirmed under him, only to feel his arms turn to steel, his hands into a vise - that raw power, emanating from him.

He growled at her struggles.  “A girl must not resist.”

She laughed and tried to twist out from underneath him.

“Some joking thing, you think?” His voice was hard, his face was immediately upon hers, and she traced the lines of it with her eyes, every inch of it hers, hers.  She smiled up at him.   _Wrong move._

The sharp pain of his teeth, biting her lips, and suddenly she realized she was well and truly pinned.  He bit her again, and she tasted blood and sucked on the bitten lip as his mouth punished her neck and down between her breasts, marking her.

“This night - a girl is mine, to do as I wish with.” He sat up and pulled her up, roughly relieving her of her shirt, not bothering to unbutton her shorts and yanking them off of her, the harshness of his movements creating an infinitesimal shiver down her spine and resonating like a bell at the juncture of her legs.

“This night, this last night...I want a girl to behave.”  He hooked a finger in her cunt, a savage play, stilling her: all of her nerves sang out.

Her body arched in a graceful bridge, the suspension of her hips and breasts rising in air.

 _Which Jaqen would she get?_  She watched him with wide eyes.  He would never hurt her...but she knew that he _could_ , that his control and mustering it for this...project...was rippling deeper under his surface than he would ever admit.  And watching him in power...he was magnificent, his muscles rippling, age had not touched him yet…

“Very good.  But I think a girl can be better.”  He sat up; she felt herself flipped over onto her stomach as if she was a leaf, a feather; before she knew what was happening she was a tangle of knees and elbows on the bed.

Hmmm. Like that, eh?  A girl will obey...

She raised her rear up and left her head on the bed.  Supplicant. Her ass in front of him, legs spread apart.

_She knew what he saw._

He groaned, a banquet in front of him, and she felt his tongue trace the little line between her ass and her cunt, and when he reached her cunt his tongue plunged in and he sucked furiously, nipping her, still harsh but he had what he wanted…

And so did she, and yet it was never enough and so she spread her knees as far apart as she could to get more, more.

She couldn’t think, she just had his mouth on her, moving...and his hands rough on her thighs so that he could pull her closer to his mouth.

Close...she was close….

And just as abruptly he stopped and pulled her back and slid her on top of him, a strangled noise as she took him in, his hands rubbing up and down her back.   She couldn’t see his face, she was facing away, she couldn’t see his face but she didn’t need to - she heard him…her name like a prayer, out of his mouth, and then shouted as she bore down on him and he bucked up into her, the noise of their skin  stopping as they clung, not moving any longer except for feeling inside of her as he pulsed and snarled.

And he pulled her back so that she lay on him, facing the ceiling, palms on her breasts, balanced on his body, his softening cock resting in her, and finally a wash of gentleness - the squall of his control had come and gone and he held her to him.

For a moment they were suspended in the peace that was left in the wake of their crest, and as their breathing slowed the urgency of the situation came upon her: _he’s leaving, for months. Tomorrow._

They undulated as the night fell around them and until the moon reached its peak in the sky.

Before Arya finally slept, sticky and sweaty and curled up against him, she said a little prayer to the night, that she could keep him safe, her partner, her love.


	4. Sugar-sharp

From the water, the shores of Paphos looked like an impossible dream spun in turquoise and indigo and shimmering sand.

His boat was swift, small, a sharp, pointy thing that looked fast even as it sat rocking in the water.  

“The _only_ way to see Cyprus. In fact, you might as well not even come here at all, if you don’t plan on seeing the island from the water,” he had said after they met earlier in the week.

Then, they’d only had drinks, and she pulled back from him, only offering enough to spark him;  he’d asked her about a second date, and she’d demurred, tilting her head, smiling at him with that sad smile.  Her near-refusal sparked him; _he was used to getting what he wanted._

And so was she. _And, so she was_ \- and what she _wanted_ moved towards her now, having stopped the boat and securing it so that he could join her.

Legions of people had come to these shores and then scattered every which way in Cyprus’ ancient history; the boat had passed some Roman ruins on the shore earlier, standing testament to ancient powers.

He looked like the marble that they were carved out of, the sun flickering over his skin, catching his silver hair.  His eyes were washed out to a pale lavender from the strange intense light of the sea.

 _Aegon Targaryan._  Potentially one of the most powerful young men in Russia.  An oligarch, heir to a massive mining fortune; his family hand-picked by the Russian government even before the fall of the Soviet Union; connected to the government hundreds of ways over.  Billions of ways, actually.

_Her target._

And a delightful one, this time.

She’d met him before.  Mutual friends at Cambridge.  He was younger than she was.  Direct, yet mercurial, quick - alight.  And he was beautiful, in an unearthly way - he looked like a sprite or an elf, suffused with stardust, features too delicate and gorgeous to be real. His reputation preceded him: that Targaryan genius, but suffused with an edge of rationality that could go either way: ruthless or empathetic - the intel she had gathered had shown him in both lights, with no single way to determine which way he’d act.  Yet he was the most rational body in a family full of mad, searing stars that had imploded of their own weight, tragedy on tragedy feeding itself, red bloody teeth.

_A challenge._

She turned herself towards him, facing out so that his visage was framed by the open sea. _Let him touch her._ She noted that her thigh was open right next to his hand, and she looked at him with her head cocked, willing his fingers to move to her.

“You were right, you know. This is the most beautiful way to see Cyprus. I may never want to go back to land.”  She murmured almost under his hearing, and his very being moved to her voice like a guitar string plucked.

_A challenge...or child’s play._

“Every time I come out to Cyprus, I have to _pry_ myself off of this boat and back into civilization. I’ve slept out here, you know - and possibly the only thing more gorgeous than seeing the island from the sea during the day is seeing it at night.” His mouth quirked up in a smile.

“And possibly, the most gorgeous thing right here is YOU.  What a _happy_ coincidence, seeing you in Cyprus.”  He moved closer to her.  His hand reached out and touched her leg; she quelled a smile as his touch recoiled briefly from the unexpected temperature of her skin and then settled back on her.

Melisandre had always been searing hot to the touch; as a child she’d baffled doctors with a resting temperature that would have sent other children to the emergency room with a dire fever.  No flush, nothing belied her heat that burned under her skin.  Just...when someone touched her...they felt it.  And when she closed her eyes, she saw it, a conflagration of white light, white heat. _She was chosen._  She’d known it her whole life. _That heat..._

And the light...it grew stronger under her eyes when she was closer to her target; an inexplicable edge among other young, beautiful Russian spies - a sixth sense.  A religious calling, almost.  Almost. Sweetened with power.

“Nothing is a coincidence, Aegon. I think it was really foreordained that we met again. I’d thought of you, after just a glimpse years ago. You made quite an impression.”   

Melisandre knew her words were inflammatory but she tempered them with a serious, almost mournful smile and a deferent look on her face.

“You are the light. And I am drawn to you.”

“The light, eh?” Aegon’s fingers tentatively moved over the heat of her leg, safely by her knee.

She nodded, seriously.  “A light in the darkness. The darkness of Russia.”

She saw his mouth turn again. _Don’t consider that too much yet, Aegon._ She moved to engulf him before he could say anything else, before he could think. She kept her face serious, intense, and as she moved in she kept her eyes on his lips.

Again the heat surprised him, she felt it, _she knew it._  She knew the power in her own mouth, knew the smell of amber and smoke and skin that emanated from her. Her tongue moved against his, red-hot in his mouth, her lips searing against his; a powerful kiss to contrast with the obeisance of her words.

She felt him react to her; the surprise of her sudden sure movement melting into his own desire, his arms tightening around her, wrapped around her head, a hand plunged into the red curls.

A sheen of sweat appeared on his face from the proximity to hers.  She stopped kissing him and licked across the bow of his lips with the red point of her tongue, savoring the salt and then diving into his mouth again.

And as he moved his hands from her hair to push her slowly, forcefully down on the boat she looked into his eyes.  If they were lavender before, they burned violet now, narrowed, purposeful. All of the mercurial energy that surrounded him focused like a pinpoint onto her and the jut of his jaw, the gorgeous angle of it over her... _he was the light._

The light played over her heat, his fingertips moving over her scalding skin, his tongue playing in the divet of her collarbone, flicking over the ruby at her neck and stiffening to draw a line between her breasts, separated from his tongue only momentarily before he pulled the swimsuit top off, the violet eyes becoming greedy as she spilled out and he watched her breasts in fascination, redoubling his movements to grasp a red, red nipple floating on the lushest cream of her flesh in that mouth.

_Targaryan madness.  Let’s see if he’s escaped it.  Or if I can wield it._

  
  
  
  


Jon loved Ygritte’s little apartment, even though she’d mercilessly tease him about being “too grand” to ever live in such a small space.  It was chaos.  The kitchen table would pile up with papers and clothes and little things all over it; a hairbrush festooned with red curly hairs, coffee cups from her day, a notebook with indecipherable scribbles all over it.  Hockey pucks, in season; bandages, branches and leaves that she’d pull; the apron she wore tending bar, beer caps, wine corks…

Ygritte was chaos, chaos, a hurricane of movement and mess and sharpness.

His military training and cleanliness could keep her chaos at bay, momentarily.  And he’d carefully clean the kitchen down to a shine, everything organized...and she’d come home from her shift and in a few short oscillations everything would be a mess again, her force of nature resisting his neatness.

She was at work, now; tending bar at one of the locals’ places in Marquette, where generations of tough, craggy people came to drink beer and joke and mutter to themselves.  Ygritte was a flame in that dark bar, she took no shit and her reputation for physically picking up and tossing out those that had partaken too much preceded her.

Jon loved to watch her work, her fierceness and wit on display in front of him; he’d sip a beer in the shadows and see the sharp point of her chin, the quick flash of her humor, and occasionally, a softening in her eyes when she looked over at his face.

He put his papers up into a neat corner of order on the chaos of their kitchen table.  She’d be off in a bit, he’d prepared as best he could for the next class, and he wanted to see her, walk with her through the little Northern town.

  
  


A neon Schlitz sign glowed and buzzed under several mournful, stilled deer heads mounted on the wall.  Faded handwritten signs proclaiming the bar’s desire for cash not credit, dollar bills adorned with drawings and signatures, and the various effluvium, tsotchkes and trophies and  school photos from the children of the bar’s regulars were over the bar.  Jon sat down at the end and watched Ygritte talking pointedly with a few locals, not yet seeing him.

They were in heated discussion, it looked like; and from the way they were gesturing, they were talking about a table of four men seated at the back of the room.  Men in uniform.  

 

_Homeland Security._

 

Jon’s curiosity piqued. Again, so many government people, so much security - none of it made sense.  The four were huddled together, oblivious to the almost palpable ring of distrust around them.

 _That didn’t make sense either, that the locals were hostile._  Marquette didn’t mind Coast Guard, didn’t mind military folks...

Ygritte walked over to him behind the bar and jumped up to lean her body over and give him a sharp peck on the lips.  She swatted him as his eyes traveled down to her breasts, small, pointing at him, visible in the gap in a v neck tee shirt.

“Ah, you’re no better than the rest of ‘em, Jon. Hey, my eyes are up here.”  She laughed and then quickly pulled the v of her shirt down for him, exposing the small bit of cleavage beneath it.

“Looks like a good night to get you drunk, Jon. You look like you’d be pretty easy. I’ll get my hands on that pretty boy face in a second. Take this.” She poured a shot for him, that rot-gut whiskey, one shot, no two shots...inches of the pale brown liquor.

He smiled, shaking his head. “Ygritte...just a beer. I have class in the morning….”

“Take this, pretty boy. I want to get my sweet, little pretty boy drunk and have my way with him.” Her voice mocked him, a sing song.

“Take it, Stark!”  The locals at the end of the bar were noticing their interaction.  “Or we can take her off yer hands, if’n she’s too much for ya!”

Jon laughed. “Sorry, boys, she’s mine.”  He gulped the whiskey back in one neat movement. “And I’m ready to take you home. Your shift up, yet?”

“One shot of whiskey and he’s gonna take me home.  Didja hear that one, boys?”  Ygritte winked at him and moved to the other end of the bar.  “Well, yer lucky you’ve got such a pretty face, Jon, ‘cause I’m done in ten minutes. And I’m gonna take _you_ home.”

Jon watched her clean up the bar and sipped on a beer that she set down in front of him.  A man sat down next to him; rough hands, work boots, and a scruff covering a reddened face.  Jon nodded; a local.

The man waved to Ygritte and got a beer from her, wordlessly drinking it while scowling at the Homeland Security table.  

Jon nudged him.  “What’s up with them? We’re seeing them along the coast more and more.”

The man scowled. “Nothing good, son. Hear they shot at a boat trying to cross into Canada a few days ago.”

“Shot at it?” Jon was shocked.  This was...violence against Americans, this was the International border to Canada, on the water... _this was_...this made no sense.

“Yup. Shot at ‘em. Folks trying to get away, dissidents - kids making a big stink, can’t pay their bills here, no healthcare, no nothin’. You live nearby?”

“Yeah, up towards Munising...we have some land. Noticed them along the coast.  But shooting at boats?”

“Stark kid, aren’t you.” The man leaned in conspiratorially.  “Knew your dad. Good man. Ay, it’s dark days. Eyes all over the place. Gotta watch yer back. If you can get off grid now, I’d do it.”

Jon’s eyes widened.  Summer at Winterfell meant a merciful lack of cable TV, a summer unplugged for the most part. What the fuck was happening?

“Thanks...but...how’d you hear all of this?” Jon took another drink.  Ygritte was just chatting with the next bartender; they could leave soon.

“Did some work for the Coast Guard station.  New wiring, electricity. A real command center. Kept my head down; they talked like I wasn’t even there.”

Jon nodded and Ygritte appeared behind him, a pale arm reaching around his neck; a brushy thatch of red hair rubbing up against his head.

Jon drained his beer and stood up, nodded a thank you to the man.

He grabbed Ygritte’s hand and he stopped himself from looking back at the table as they walked out the door and into in the evening.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Willas was leaving. Tonight. At 5 p.m., actually; a quick flight down to Atlanta and then a drive to Highgarden, to convene with the inner circle of the Tyrell family, all of them probably shaken and grieving _beautifully_ while moving through the impossibly elegant Civil War-era plantation house whose Georgian columns Olenna Tyrell had sat, sniping with her friends, drinking tea.

Sansa shuddered to think of the ghost of Olenna Tyrell darting through airy hallways and into large bedrooms, coming through the massive azalea bushes and past the shutters, tenderly tucking around her family and bringing painful wrath to the woeful enemy who decided to sleep under her roof.

Olenna Tyrell had been one of the most skilled female politicians in the South, and she had used her sugar-sharpened tongue and eagle eyes to rise through local government up to the Georgia statehouse, resisting calls to run for national elected office and instead firmly entrenching her base of provincial power that rippled in palpable waves out from her plantation house.  She was a vicious, vicious enemy, strategic; the Tyrell family had all grown strong and successful from the careful tending of Olenna’s political image.

Sansa felt the glumness fall into her stomach.  She could never, ever set foot in HighGarden again.   _Even if Olenna doesn’t haunt me, Margaery will know about Petyr, she’ll sense it - and then I’m dealing with Olenna’s protege._ She felt consumed by the idea of leaving for Petyr.  Her every other thought flitted back to him, as if he were playing a game of ping-pong against the sum of the rest of her thoughts: _Chicago; Petyr. Olenna Tyrell; Petyr. Petyr; Petyr._

_Petyr, tonight. Tonight, tonight, tonight._

No, no, Sansa would not be able to join Willas at Highgarden, not until the very last possible minute, and leaving as quickly as possible.  I’ll fly into Highgarden the day of the funeral.  And possibly try to bring Willas back to Chicago afterwards.  No...that won’t work either, the Tyrells will milk this for as long as they can, even while they truly mourn her….

Sansa distinctly realized that she was fucked.

_She was fucked; Petyr._

_Well, there is that._ She stilled a smile with effort and ran her tongue along the back of her teeth: _sssoon yes soon. Mmmmm._  

She checked her watch. She’d drop Willas at the airport. And then she would directly drive to Petyr’s condo - no, home and drop the car; no need to be indiscreet - go to Petyr’s house and fuck him. _Finally._

She felt a familiar heat, felt all of her blood concentrate between legs, all of her heat and a sudden wetness.  At least it’s soon, at least it’s soon…

Willas walked into the kitchen, pulling a gleaming leather wheeled suitcase behind him; he’d changed into a lighter suit.  As Sansa looked at him, his big brown eyes and sandy hair making him look so much like a sad hound, she let her thoughts ping back to him and instantly felt that other dark angel on her shoulder, guilt; its talons squeezing her each time her excitement swung too hard. Guilt. _Guilt and Want, balanced on my shoulders._

She reached up and smoothed his tie, touched the side of his face with a featherhand, for once feeling guilty enough to let her natural expression touch her face.

He looked down into her blue eyes and leaned over her, touching the top of her head with his forehead.

“I’m sorry you can’t come with me.”  Perfect Willas. So sweet. He really was sorry that she couldn’t come.

_Fucking perfect Willas._

“I know.” Sansa whispered.  She felt the hot sting start to build up in her eyes. She knew that Willas would notice, but that he’d only be partially right about the reason.

He picked her keys up; a BMW logo on a black leather fob.  Sansa’s 445 horsepower, V-8, walnut paneled gift from him.

“I’ll drive us to the airport, sweetheart. I know you’re upset.”

_Fucking Willas._

Sansa just nodded, and mutely followed behind him out the door, his suitcase trailing behind him, on his way - the grieving, upright handsome grandson - on his way to his family home.

_And his wife, dropping him off there, and then running off to her lover._

Sansa bit her lip.

And let her thought ping to Petyr again.  Walking behind Willas to the garage, she shot off a text message.

_One hour._

Petyr’s message zinged back immediately; the buzz of the phone felt strangely sexual in her hand, her palm sweating slightly.

_My sweet. Rush to me. I need you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. Melisandre took some time to puzzle out. Hope it was worth it!


	5. rebels, dissidents, and the unpatriotic

_She could do this._

Arya sat sprawled out on the couch.  Her first day completely away from Jaqen.  

He had left this morning with a million kisses for her and a wry smile on his face. He’d miss her. He was excited to be going.  And...he was a little apprehensive of what he’d find.  And _something else._

_Fucking Jaqen._

Even now, even as she knew him in her every cell -  the fragments of her soul would scatter, fly around the earth upon her death and they would _still_ bear his touch  - she still had a hard time puzzling out all of him, and the _something else_ buzzed in her mind like a persistent fly that she could not brush off.

But she could read him enough.   _And he’d miss her.  And he was excited to be going._

And she was excited, too, initially, to have some time alone.  After Jaqen left this morning,  she cranked up the stereo to non-Jaqen approved levels, and listened to some distortion-pedaled noise that he’d put his eyebrow up against if he was in a mood.  She had worked out for way too long, without him coming to stop her.  And after a shower and some bad tv, she sprawled out in the spot on the couch that smelled most like him, a pint of ice cream in her hand, a heating pad on what was sure to be a very sore muscle in the morning.

And he wasn’t even there to torture her by smirking out his usual “a girl will feel better with ice.”

_No ice, Jaqen, not tonight, something needs to keep me warm, even if it’s this fucking heating pad._

She was heading to New York City for a few days tomorrow.  She’d go to her publisher’s office and have a few workdays; she’d mull around the city; she’d frolic through Central Park.  New York was a busy, crazy place juxtaposed against their upstate cocoon.  Arya liked getting little doses of it.   She’d get a hotel room, get a feeling for traveling by herself again.  

And then just when she was tired of it, she’d go see him and they’d meet up somewhere beautiful, and she’d have her way with him and take the pleasant ache of him with her - until she couldn’t bear the distance again, lather rinse repeat, and then he’d be home before she knew it.

The thought of reuniting with him was a good one.   _So good._  She nestled into the couch, content, letting her mind play the movie of him coming to her, over and over.  Her hand strayed down. _Yes, so good._ Shuddering and letting her reality clarify bit by bit after a particularly vivid and _most satisfying_ daydream about him, she lay on the couch panting.  When she came to, completely she grabbed the remote, flicked to the news.

_International travelers should take note of the President’s latest executive order.  Travelers departing and returning to the United States will be subject to a complete search of their electronic communications at the will of Customs Agents. Critics say it is a violation of the Fourth Amendment.  The White House has not commented except to point to the Domestic Agenda, which aims to keep what the administration is calling ‘rebels, dissidents, and the unpatriotic” out of the country - or at least keep tabs on them._

_Coming up next, the weather.  Upstate New York will…._

Arya clicked off the TV, irritated.  The Fourth Amendment, now. _Really, you crooked motherfucker?_  Shit was beyond weird. First Amendment rights had only been tenuously protected by a group of politicians - and even then, there was a mysterious death of one of them. In broad daylight. So corrupt. Ugh. Her anger rose.

Thank god she had a handful of Varys-approved passports in her drawer, thank god she had a handful of Varys-maintained identities online.  Thank god she had an airtight pen name for the very prickly and critical book she was about to publish.

And thank god she knew that there was an effort, somewhere, somehow, to overthrow and delegitimize the current “President.”

_And that one of those involved had long, wavy hair and the most intense stare she had ever seen; a mouth that could convey a million feelings and sensations, those thick, long fingers that…._

Arya leaned back on the couch again.   _Months alone, eh?  I’d better get a better vibrator._

  
  
  
  
  


A man did not usually worry about guns. Even when he did not have one of his own, it was simple enough to avoid a fool with a gun.  For one thing, most fools do not expect their target to run straight at them, to dive and roll and come up again.  Fools are easily distracted.  And government fools, well, generally a man could get close enough to them to disarm them.

But he still could not shake the vision of security at the airport.  He had never seen riot gear in an American airport - and for no reason at all, just keeping regular order.

He looked out the too small window of the plane at the endless Atlantic below him.

Cyprus.  A man had not been there since he was very young, and even then, only to the Turkish side.  Cyprus, so close to his homeland. He should take a girl; she would delight, her energy would carry them through Istanbul; her eyes would get thoughtful and misty if he told her all of his secrets.

He still kept some secrets, but very few from his lovely, convincing girl.

_His._

He had taken off his wedding ring and given it to her for safekeeping. This mission, there should be no reason for any snakes to think that a man was already claimed.  He might have to be...convincing himself.

That was what a lovely girl did not know about.  One secret kept from her.

He did not relish the thought. His discomfort had kept Varys at bay for months. His target was known to love both men and women, and his target frequently looked for men that looked like Jaqen.  Varys had giggled upon presenting this tidbit of information, and then pestered him relentlessly about coming back into service.

“Jaqen, you know, it really is for the greater good.  I’d do it in a heartbeat, myself, but I don’t quite think I’m his type.”  Varys had batted his eyelashes at that, strangely androgynous Varys.  Varys, the keeper of all of the secrets, Varys who collected all of the intelligence he could and sent Jaqen’s brothers and sisters out to handle the very dirty business of righting some of the world’s wrongs.  

For a price.

Jaqen settled back and closed his eyes, listening to the dull hum of the airplane.

The price had better be good for this mission. His intention was to get in and out before he had to...compromise himself. And no blood. A man had said.  But potentially enough information to take down the corrupt government that had sprung up in the United States, and the shadow government that ran seamlessly underneath it.

For a lovely girl, he thought; he felt his face crinkle the slightest bit as he ran his head through months of occasional rants by her about the new president, how she stamped her feet when she got information she did not like, how she wrote up policy alternatives in neat bulleted detail and sent them across the land. The fierce pride when a sliver of her work was adopted. _To resist,_ a girl would say, and her anger would tie her up and shoot out of her molten silver eyes, and a man would have to take special care with her later to unwind her.

Not always the worst thing, the unwinding of her, taking her ragged edges apart bit by bit to find the soft warm core that lie underneath those edges and the hard ribbons of her muscles and the waves of dark hair and that skin...

He summoned his control - _it would not do to have a raging erection on the flight_ \- and stilled his thoughts, all of them, all of them, and meditated to try to calm himself and become empty enough to become no one when he got off the flight.

  
  
  
  


Sansa’s black asterisk day had morphed into a blood red scribble. _They would have left, Petyr had plane tickets, today would have been the day._  All of it scuttled when Willas had walked so strangely into the room and dropped the warhead of Olenna’s death on her, shrapnel flying around and puncturing Sansa’s future, trapping her.

The sidewalk to Petyr’s apartment might as well have been made of fog and ether. Sansa was so far outside of her body that she marveled at the smooth tone of the intercom responding to the touch of her finger.   _Here, here._  Sansa didn’t see anything, didn’t register anything, just the thump thumping of her heart as she made her way to the elevator and felt herself quiver, stomach briefly lurching as the elevator car moved up, up and the door opened.  She kept her eyes on the ground.  

She stepped outside the elevator and before she could move her eyes up from the ground she felt his hands on her shoulder; felt him leading her wordlessly, and felt so fucking glad to follow;  felt her whole body tremble and suddenly she was in his apartment, the door was behind them, a satisfying metallic click as the lock closed.

Finally, finally, mercifully they were alone and Sansa felt a bloom from the crown of her head and roll through her body: relief and want shuddering through her.

Petyr stepped in front of her and put his finger under her chin, lifting her head up severely so that she looked into his eyes. His finger was iron on her skin, digging under the bone of her chin and her head moved up, excitement washing over her, danger, the acid taste of her own betrayal washed away.

His eyes bore into her mercilessly and he kept his face a few inches from her, pepper and skin and soap and leather washing over her like waves, the landscape of his face punctuated by his brow, fierce.

She couldn’t read him.

She stood, stock still, as if she was held up only by the finger ungently pushing in the soft skin under her chin, vulnerable. _Touch me, I’m here, I’m right in front of you._

He denied her, only keeping the one finger under her chin, the rest of his body torturously far from her even as she breathed in his exhalations.

“Sansa. Darling. We should be over the Atlantic right now.  We should be a few hours away from Paris, celebrating your freedom.  Three short text messages from you and our whole plan falls apart.”

His jaw stiffened.

“To say I’m disappointed is an understatement, my sweetling. Tell me what happened, now.”

There was a crispness in his voice, a cold overtone.  It was sharp and completely at odds with the previous Petyr, and even moreso with the stranger, the one that she _hadn’t_ loved so long ago: he would have been oily and ingratiating.

 _This_ Petyr was in control. It was maddeningly alluring.

She felt her mouth open and close and licked her lips before she spoke.  His eyes flicked to her tongue before moving back up to keep her gaze.

She saw it. _An opening. His control is not as iron-clad as it seems._

“Olenna Tyrell died. Willas is on a plane to Highgarden right now. I can’t leave him right now, can’t leave the marriage. I’d be - _we’d be_ \- destroyed in the press. And Willas would just _die._ ”

The words dropped out of her mouth, disappointment and guilt and a little bit of fear at what this stern Petyr would do.  She shivered, both of her black angels firmly on her shoulder.

Petyr let his hand fall and walked away from her, putting his hand on his chin and the other at his hip, thinking, thinking.

“Ah. This complicates everything, doesn’t it. No, no, you can’t leave Willas now.”  She couldn’t read Petyr’s voice, but she knew he was calculating, calculating...

She did notice, however - and almost moved across the room to him - his erection up against his pants, even as he looked away from her, out the window at the dark green Chicago river and its backdrop of silvery high rises.

She wanted him, god, she had been waiting.

She fairly sang her words out.

“Petyr. I’m here, I’m here now, Willas is gone...Petyr, _please._ ”  Her voice a naked plea, stark; she dug her fingernails into her palm.

He turned to her, his eyebrow raised but not quite finished with whatever flurry of thoughts had risen with Sansa’s news.

“Yes. You did say that you’d make it up to me.”

And then in a low tone, “Olenna Tyrell. Darling.  Yes, his family is already in chaos. Best to lay low. For now.”

Satisfied, his mien changed completely and a dark shadow crossed it.

“So you still belong to Willas. Yes, _belong._ But right now I’m going to take you from him.”  His eyes glittered as he looked her up and down.

_Oh._

“And you’re going to take your clothes off.” His voice went deeper and he leaned back against the window, waiting.

Sansa could have roared, could have ripped everything off, carefully stitched seams in ivory georgette, so much the easier to rip...but she wanted to _obey_ this Petyr.  She was violently curious: a brand new lover, one that she had waited for, so forbidden.

She stood in front of him, naked - her posture defiant.  One angel on her shoulder now, only one. _Take me._

He walked across the room to her and stood, looking at her, up and down. Sansa felt her skin prickle, felt her stomach clench, her nipples tauten almost to the point of pain.

And then he reached for her mouth, his hands balling into fists in her hair, a shaky exhale as she felt his tongue, felt his lips around her, harsher than she had ever been kissed, more urgently; his kisses led up hills and dropped off of cliffs and then flattened, sweetened, floated.

She moved, involuntarily towards him, but when her body brushed against his he pushed her back from her, his voice quavering.

“Sansa.  Lie back.”  He gestured to a chair, moved out of her way...his clothes still on, she noted and let the thought drift away.

“I want to see you. I want to see all of you. Lie back…”

Sansa forced herself to obey, clutching at the leather chair, nothing to grab onto, no relief, her fingers slipping, cognizant of the wetness between her thighs.  She whimpered.

He moved over her.

“Touch yourself.”

_Cruelty._

_She had, she had touched herself, that’s all she had fucking done, and now he was right here in front of her, she could smell him, she saw him hard in front of her...why was he denying her?_

“Petyrrrrrrr….”  At least she had some relief. Her finger moved down and she pushed into herself, slicking into herself faster than she had intended.

“No. Too much.” He frowned, reached for her fingers and put them on her labia, her whole being registering when his fingertip brushed her sex, a vibration.

 _Cruelty, cruelty._ He took his fingers away and moved back to study the effect.  She stroked her outer lips, starting to writhe. _Not enough._  “I need….”

At that he put one fingertip in his mouth and pulled it away, that smile starting to play over his face.

“Right now I need you to touch yourself. And I’m going to watch you. Sansa, darling, right now you are mine, are you not, sweetling?”  His breath hitched but he still spoke in that low controlled voice.  Sansa couldn’t stop staring at his cock straining through his pants.   _Right there…_

“Yesssss, Petyr.”

_Just fuck me already._

Sansa could barely keep her core still, but she kept circling around the outside of her sex, keeping her finger away from the heat she could feel coming out of herself. _Maybe if I’m good..._ her thoughts were not coherent, they coughed and sputtered through a red fog. She spread her legs out so that he could see her wantonness, torture him with it.

“Yes. Slower, Sansa darling.”

She slowed down her finger down to an achingly gentle tease and with grim satisfaction saw that he had leaned up against the chair to ease himself.

Her other hand moved up and over her skin, her skin so ready to be touched that even the stirrings of air felt like an embrace, beguiling.  She palmed her breast and the sensation made her close her eyes and lose focus, her finger sliding back into herself.

“Sansa…” Petyr’s eyes were half closed and his voice came out strangled.  “Sansa. Your clit. Your beautiful, pink clit. Touch it. I want...you to touch it.”

 _Finally._ She gasped as she touched herself, twirling her fingers around the bud, little crackles of electricity and heat shooting through her, her back arching.

 _“Want...you….need you...oh_ ” she spoke without thinking, oh, she could not keep herself together, she heard his voice, he said something but she didn’t hear his words. She closed her eyes and let one finger turn to two turn into her fingers wherever she could put them, the aching need begging for relief, and then she felt something else, something else on her, and his head was right there, and suddenly his mouth over her, hot and wet and his tongue found her and he sucked at her as if it was the only thing that he had, the only way for him to breathe was to draw her clit into his mouth and lave it with his tongue.

Sansa heard herself cry out as she came violently, bucking over her edge, pushed over; felt her cunt tighten desperately and release, wettening him, his face prickling against her thighs and his tongue cruelly moving away from the core of her.

She whimpered as the waves still pushed through her and Petyr moved back, satisfied, his erection still standing at attention in his pants. She watched him through lids half closed as she came back to earth, watched him smile and start to unbutton his shirt.

Sansa panted and realized that for the first time in years she had lost herself, she was out of her tender trap, able to breathe. Out of her cage.  

_And into Petyr’s._

The realization spread across her face and she smiled.  Petyr was watching her.  She pulled her fingers up to her mouth and spread her tongue out, daintily licking off her cream.  His shirt was off, and she watched as his erection sprung free from his pants.

_Her turn._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre had been blocking me for so long that once I had her part done, this next chapter wrote itself really quickly.


	6. windfall

Somehow her skin was cool to his touch, except where the warm borders of her melded up against him.  Strawberry pink and cream and copper and that face, angelic enough in waking and almost impossibly irresistible in her sleep, the curve of her cheekbones, the line of her throat, calling his fingers to move over them, trace them, claim them.

He could hardly believe his good fortune - _no, fortune wasn’t the right word._ Fortune implied something that just came to him, undeservedly, out of his control.

This was the windfall of a payday that he had worked to secure for so many years, the natural conclusion of a deal he had agonized over.

Sansa Stark lay in his arms and even as she slept her scent played around his face.

His cock twitched.

The sun wasn’t quite up yet. They had a few hours before she’d have to disappear back into her own world, caged with the expectations that the Tyrells had wrapped around her shoulders.  And she’d have to armor herself once again with the courtesy that trailed around her even more strongly than her scent, that she could no more get rid of than she could her blue eyes or the graceful curve of her wrist.

But oh so delicious, to watch her drop that courtesy last night. Make her put on a show for him - and then watch her drop all pretense, all niceties.

Wanted to see how she’d react to his roughness - and he’d held that roughness back for so long that he couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to.  And her response, god, the lewdness of her that existed underneath that cloak of courtesy. More than most men could take. An assault on his control.  He took her - he made her touch herself last night, and then he took her, roughly.  He wanted to see if she’d back away. Where her limits were.

He had claimed her - no, he had made her claim herself, and then took her over and over again, hardly able to muster coherent thought after the first time, allowing himself the freedom from subtleties, from anything but wanting to plunge into her, over and over.

He didn’t find the edges of her limits, last night. They certainly didn’t arise when he forced her on her knees; if anything, she became larger, stronger, even more compelling.

She grew, became larger than the room, larger than the city, and at the end of it he gasped in her, drowning in her.

The sight of Sansa Stark _begging_ for his cock in a fever and then closing her soft lips around it even as he pushed to that heat as far as he could was the most glorious thing that he’d ever seen in his fucking life.

Little bird moved in his arms now as if sensing the rising intensity of his thoughts and he watched the movements of her, each one more sensuous than the next, unstudied, and pulled her closer to him.

And was rewarded with the slow opening of those eyes, blue skies clearing and becoming warm as her mouth moved into a smile and she nestled closer to him.

He rubbed his cheek on hers. Strangely intimate, compared to all of the things he had done in his life...he’d never felt compelled just to wrap around one of the women in his bed.  If he could have absorbed her completely he would have. Stopped time and alternated between the most intimate and docile and worshipful of touches, and punctuate them with the most depraved scrapings of his lust, and the juxtaposition of both of those would make their peaks even more pronounced.

 

Today would be the last day, for a while. Business.  Better make it count. Give her something to think about.

This morning, though, he’d be tender.  Something to think about, yes - something to dream about, something to make her unable to focus as she recoiled from Willas later today.

If last night was for him, this morning was for her.

He silenced a rising groan.

“Good morning, sweetling.” His voice was a whisper in her ear and he rolled over her, rewarded with the feeling of her body stretching out below him, as if to ready itself for him and that smile, just for him.

The way she moved reminded him of one of those time-lapse images of a seed bursting from the ground and stretching everything it had towards the sun, towards glory.  He reached a hand in that hair and pulled her head up to his mouth, gently touching her forehead with his lips and moving towards the warm wetness of her mouth, open and ready for his tongue.

The feeling of her underneath him; her cool, soft breasts pushing his body up to an angle perfectly made for kissing her over, and over; his hardness getting closer and closer to the hot center of her; he started to thrust towards her even as his mouth lolled gently on hers, his tongue becoming insistent as the tip of him maddeningly pushed into her.

He kept himself there, shallowly edging the growing lushness, and kissed her, steeling himself against the want to just completely enter her.  The little kitten noises that came out even as her mouth was pressed up against his tested his resolve - but Petyr could wait.

After all - what good is a windfall if you spend it all at once.  No, it’s better to spend it strategically.  And he could feel her body begging him to enter, hips snugly underneath his, squirming to try to take him in further even as he allowed his fingers to tighten further in her hair, and allowed only the very head of his cock to plumb her.

He’d be rewarded for his patience, with interest.

Besides, Sansa Stark writhing up against him, getting wetter and wetter, flashes of anger starting to punctuate her kisses - it was worth holding back.

Until he couldn’t. He felt the sharp dig of her fingernails into his back and her body move in a way that she couldn’t have moved had she been in control of her own senses and in one movement allowed himself to push into her, inch by fucking inch, each one tighter than the first.

God.  Sansa.

He was buried in her and the slight pricking of that red stubble up against his base begged him to move - that friction, so different than the slickness inside.  He moved, he was swimming against her tide, he couldn’t fucking get deep enough into her, he couldn’t keep kissing her because she had taken him, taken him, she was pulling him in, each little muscle in her core like a little hand, gripping at him, her neck elongated like a swan and she threw her head back and he had to stop himself from marking her, from grabbing her with everything he had just to get further into her.

He might have been plunging into her for a minute or an hour, he didn’t know; he didn't fucking care; she was so responsive underneath him, and every movement an even more impossibly perfect gripping of him - and when he felt her walls tighten even further up against him he couldn’t take it and let himself frenzy and climb and her voice tightened around him in the perfect fucking noises of the most beautiful girl in the world brought to pleasure at the tip of his cock...his cock...his….

And everything suspended and he was only made out of the savage need that spurted out of himself, hissing out her name even as he felt himself pump into her.

He rested on top of her, the feeling of himself, spent, still pushed up into her as far as he could be until his cock started to melt back into normalcy...it was as close to perfection as Petyr Baelish had ever felt.

  
  
  
  
  


He listened to the sound of water running in his bathroom; she was humming as she washed up.

She’d have to go to Highgarden today, poor little bird.

How she managed to look so put together after he had spent the night trying to unravel her, he’d never know.  She emerged with that copper hair pulled back, the white lines of her body covered, and the protective aura of herself acting as a forcefield.

She was beautiful.

He stilled a smile as she looked over at him; he could tell when she was gathering her thoughts and he waited to see what would come out of her mouth.

“Petyr.  I have to leave. God. I don’t want to deal with any of this.”  A shadow moved over her brow and for a moment her lips puckered in the smallest of pouts.

“And Willas. Petyr...you know I can’t leave him now. Not now, not yet.”

“Well, Sansa darling. No, you can’t. But - don’t be sad, sweetling. This could yet work out in your favor.  After all - Olenna Tyrell was a frighteningly rich woman.  Surely Willas has a lot to gain from her death.”  

If Sansa had been worthy of his love 24 hours ago, she was potentially a billion times more worthy now.

“And so have you.  In fact, you’ve gained a lover in addition to your husband. So for now, you just have to think of it this way: you’ve got it all.”

Her pretty face processed that information and before she could speak he continued.

“Sansa, darling, I don’t like it either.  But we’ll have to keep up appearances.  And I’ll have to steal you away.  As often as possible.  As prudent.”

She wasn’t smiling yet.

“Willas is a very busy man, Sansa, very busy - and now he’ll be even more busy as he untangles his beloved grandmother’s fortune.  In fact, I doubt he’ll even notice the whereabouts of his beautiful wife, if, perchance, she happens to be gone during the day.”

He firmed up his voice. He had decided.

“So, for now, we’re having an affair.  And your job, darling, is to be as convincing of a sweet wife as possible.”

He reached for her mouth to seal his words.

“Our time will come.”

  
  
  
  


Oh, sure, she was _just fine_ , just fine without him, thank you very much. The sun still rose and set.  The earth was still turning.  She continued to breathe.  

_That didn’t mean she had to like it._

It _was_ amusing to pad around the house by herself. At first.  She had initially decided to go to New York right away - and then changed her mind. _A test._ Not having Jaqen’s very presence, that honey that hung over her every thought, was like plunging into cold water: initially exhilarating.  And then: freezing, bereft of comfort, blankets and fireplaces not enough to melt her into the familiar languidity that he could summon with a twitch of his mouth.

_Stupid test._

Jon had laughed at her on the phone. _Jon._ “My baby sister.  When did you get so soft? No Jaqen. Are you sleeping with the lights on?”

She had rolled her eyes at that. “Okay _professor_. Let’s talk about soft for a bit…”

 _No, no lights on._  But a knife with an ornate handle, the very first present Jaqen had given to her, was tucked very close to her at night.

The last straw was a cup of weak coffee that she stirred sadly. Just one of the insufferable little domestic truths that she’d had to face since Jaqen left.   _She had forgotten how to make a strong pot of coffee. Shoot me now._

The only thing bearing witness to her domestic inability had been a small army of dirty coffee cups in the sink and a trail of papers around the house.  The house, the house was Jaqen, each little angle was his smirk, each honey tone of the wood was his skin.

She had to go.

_This is a stupid test._

  


Upstate New York was no Upper Peninsula, and their little compound was no Winterfell, but she could pretend it was, if she drove fast enough, if she just let the green on the sides of the road blur into a comfortable leafy haze.  The woods made way to suburban, balanced humanity and then the city took over and Arya navigated through the traffic with her heart thumping the cadence of New York City.

She had work to do.  She was more than the sum of her limbs tangled in his. If she expected to make it through the next few months alive and sane she’d better stop being so stupid and reach down into herself, into where Arya Stark was, and handle her own fucking business.

Her publisher was expecting her tomorrow, anyhow, and wouldn’t allow her the luxury of weakness, of wallowing.   _Lyanna._ Arya grinned. Probably one of Arya’s closest friends, their professional relationship built on a mutual _fuck-you, world._

Her publisher...her publisher was excited. Fuck, _she_ was excited. She hadn’t known what to do with all of the kinetic energy that emerged from her after the first few months she met Jaqen.   _Lannister hunting._

So she wrote about it, letting the twitch and disgust curl over her lips as she typed, looking at all of the different angles of just how that fucking cunt had been able to sow so much chaos.

She left out the part about _that_ family killing her parents.

Or...how she had killed Cersei with her own hands.  Retribution.

That might make it...too...personal.  And traceable.

Cersei Lannister had armed jihadist militants, promising them heaven and then profiting from the hell they had created.  Fate, then, that Jaqen had come to Winterfell - and fate, that his work at that time had Lannister written all over it.

That fucking cunt Cersei had already pushed the rock down the hill, and it was gathering too much speed to stop.  Too many militants, too many arms, and too much twisting of religion - the region remained a mess.

A cautionary tale of how one family had been able to circumvent just about everyone and anyone and seed a terrorist group for their own aim.

She had learned, though, from Cersei.   _That fucking cunt._ Hopefully learned enough and written enough down to stop _\- or at least highlight_ \- that type of corruption again.  Written under an untraceable pen name, and soon to be promoted heavily and with the type of backdoor press and publicity access that only Lyanna Mormont was able to provide, and that Lyanna would _only_ provide for what she deemed worthy.

  
  
  


Arya walked through the city the first night, the old habits of melding into a crowd and watching coming back to her, really seeing the people around her; thinking about their motivations as they appeared through the little window that the presented to the world.

Jaqen had taught her that; Jaqen had taught her how to take apart all of these people in her head, to become them.  Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen….

She walked through the city until she felt that she could finally still her limbs, fall asleep in the too-pillowed hotel bed.  

She had to call him, had to hear him. It would be early morning for him.  When he answered she had to clutch the phone to her ear and let the rumble of his voice wash over her; words, syllables unimportant, melting into some strange alphabet resonating through her.

And then she sat up like a shot as he started to talk about his mission.

“Apparently a man will need to get closer to his target than is usually comfortable, Arya Stark.”

She furrowed her eyebrows at the phone.  “You said no blood. _You promised._ ”

His voice and that low little chuckle.  Arya closed her eyes to listen to him, imagining his mouth turning. “And no blood is what a man has said.  But - there are other ways to get close, my darling girl. A man will infiltrate the social circles; perhaps the target will take a man under his wing, allow him to get close.”

“Just don’t get too close, Jaqen.”  Arya said flatly.

There was silence for a moment. “Just what does a girl mean by that?”

“I mean, don’t get so close that you get yourself killed. I want you to come home.  I can already tell it’s going to be an endless few months.”

She heard him swallow before he started to speak again.

“Perhaps it does not have to be so long.  When can a girl come?”

Arya smirked, and Jaqen must have realized his innuendo and interrupted before she could tell him exactly _when, where and how._

“Correction, my irresistible, filthy girl.   _When can a girl come to visit a man._  So that he can ensure for himself when she will….”

Arya laughed. “Three weeks, maybe? I just got to the city.  I wanted to see Jon, too, after I finish with the publisher.  Sansa’s not answering my calls right now. Three weeks...seems like a long time.”

She leaned back into the bed and dropped her voice conspiratorially. “You know...you could help a girl right now.”

“Mmmm?” Jaqen’s voice turned, if possible, even silkier and the tendrils of it snaked around her. “Very well.  A girl could be helped...but first, she should tell a man just how much she wants the help…”

Arya snuggled down and put the phone on speaker.  She lowered her fingertips to her stomach and started to trace the same lazy circles that he had trailed over her abdomen a million times.

 

“Well….”

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> such a short chap, and likely not my best work either - sorry! been slightly blocked and very busy. so: take these wilted flowers with my apologies - give you a better bouquet soon. xo


	7. the entire city of New York could use a nine a.m. cocktail

The last time he’d been here, it was under _very_ different circumstances.

Gendry looked around the hotel room. His suitcase, battered and lashed with duct tape and band stickers against its inevitable demise, stuck out in the beige and blue sea of pillows and carefully picked corporate artwork screwed to the wall.

A short flight, a few short words with Thoros before he came _\- he’s like a fucking wife, an ugly fucking wife -_  the dizzying moment of getting off the plane and into a taxi and checking into the hotel, late, late, late.

Gendry opened his eyes

Last time...well, the last time he had come to New York City was with Beric’s band.  Beric had asked him to roadie and he’d happily carried guitar cases and amps out of the van and through a cloud of cigarette smoke and studied indifference into the dark club.

They’d stayed in a pile, a drunken pile of bodies, at some fan’s house in Queens, and Gendry had woken up to a small blond girl tucked up against him, looking at him hopefully and who was somehow much less beguiling, captivating in the harsh light of his hangover than she had been the night before. Beric was right. _Even roadies get some..._

But this time…

It wasn’t nervousness, prickling the back of his neck.  Or excitement. Or was it?

_Natural born heir._

He’d kept himself in check, thinking about it. He prided himself on the fact that he wasn’t the type of person to get worked up over nothing.  Leave that to Thoros. He didn’t need the fucking theatrics.  This was all bullshit, some Nigerian scam, somebody hacked into something and found something, and hey! If they wanted to send him to New York City and put him up in a hotel with fucking doilies in the room, so be it.

Gendry moved a doily off his pillow with his fingertips, noticing the blackness that was forever steeped into the whorls of his fingertips and looking thoughtfully to see if it had transferred onto the impossibly dainty lace.  He exhaled and climbed into the too soft bed, and let his body relax, trying to will himself to sleep.  

He’d find out soon enough what this whole thing was about, anyhow.

  


Nine a.m.  He walked up to a soulless office tower in Manhattan.  The bronze gleamed in the morning sunlight and people streamed all around him; hurry up hurry up hurry up.   _It’s funny how nobody looks at you here._

_Suits me just fucking fine._

That Tyrion had an office here.  The letter, the one he had finally opened and read and kept, told him to come and just ask the receptionist.  She tried to look right through him, behind her glass and metal desk; her face completely impersonal, pretty, bitchy.  Too bad.  He kept her gaze, challenged her, and watched her intently even as she dialed quickly and then hung up the phone.

The apples of her cheeks reddened a little bit, and she bade him follow her; quick efficient clicking of high heels, soft round ass in front of him enveloped by a sheath of a skirt just loose enough to miss the mark of obscene.

A sudden realization, an idea. He was in New York City. He had nothing to lose.

“What are you doing later?” He watched the heels stop moving, the legs straighten, the ass turn in profile as she turned back to him.

“Absolutely nothing.” She delivered the line with no emotion, no flicker of interest on her face, not even amusement at his clumsiness.

“Would you like to---”

“No.”  The heels resumed clicking, the ass started to move again...and it was Gendry’s turn to redden.

_Worth a shot._

The ass and the heels stopped and knocked, and then the hands above opened the door for him, the cool impartial face nodded to him, and suddenly Gendry found himself in an office looking at an impossibly large, scrolled wooden desk.

And a shrunken, strangely misshapen man, sitting behind it.

“Ah, yes. Gendry Waters.  You’ve finally answered the clarion call.”  The voice seemed too big to be coming from the little man, too rich, too resonant.   Gendry didn’t know quite what to say.  The entire situation was surreal enough, all of the letters, flown out from Chicago, and then to come into the office and find a dwarf behind all of it?

“Not quite what you expected, I see.  I did warn you that I wouldn’t quite be able to drag you back to my office, didn’t I?  Here, young Gendry, have a cocktail.  We’ve got quite a few things to discuss, and I’d prefer if you just didn’t stare at me all morning.”  Tyrion got off his chair and moved in an awkward gait over to Gendry.

He seemed friendly enough, every word that came out of his mouth was wrapped with the slightest sardonic edge. Gendry started to relax.

“No cocktail..thanks though. It’s nine in the morning.”  Gendry smiled and Tyrion gestured to a chair across from his desk.

“What a disappointment.  You know, the entire city of New York could use a nine a.m. cocktail.  It would really make things more interesting, you know?  Except for the cab drivers.  Sometimes I think they’ve already had more than their fair share, even when I have to take an early morning cab.”  Tyrion laughed.

 

“So. I suppose you’re just beside yourself wondering why the hell you’re here. Let me enlighten you.”

Gendry nodded, mutely, hoping that he wasn’t wearing too much of his expression on his face - it was increasingly clear that this man would pick up on just about anything that was in front of him.

Tyrion continued.  “My brother in-law is the head of a major multi-national corporation. Was. He died about five years ago. That corporation then fell sadly into the hands of my sister; she died shortly thereafter.”

Gendry started to make the appropriate noises of sympathy but Tyrion shushed him; the dwarf’s hand, he noticed, was strangely large for his size, just as his head was.

“The world is an infinitely better place because of her death.  And I mean that quite literally.  So, when my brother in-law died, his will was in place to only allow his naturally born heirs to take over.  Not my sister. She managed to commandeer the company by bullying the board members.  And after her death, the company passed to the hands of my nephew.”

Gendry nodded mutely.  He realized he hadn’t said more than a handful of words since he’d walked in.  He cleared his throat. “So your nephew is now running the company?  I guess I’m not seeing what the problem is?”

Tyrion laughed again, a low thing that seemed to match the dark wood of his desk.  “The problem, my dear, is that my nephew is very much NOT the natural born heir of the brother-in-law.  My nephew is...my nephew twice over, so to speak.”

Tyrion shook his head as if to dispel those words as unimportant.  “And, frankly, my nephew has no business having that much power.  And...since he’s not a natural born heir, I thought it might be a good idea to see who is, if nothing else to displace my nephew.  A trained monkey could do less damage to the world than my nephew.”

Gendry felt himself being assessed, as the dwarf’s golden-brown eyes peered intently at him.

“You certainly look like my brother-in-law.  Here.” He pushed two plastic jars over to Gendry, motioning that he should take the caps off. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to send this off to the lab.  And you shouldn’t mind, because the information that I have about your mother places her right in my lecherous brother-in-law’s path a bit less than a year before you were born.”

Gendry opened the caps and saw the swabs inside. He swallowed. “What does this mean, if I am related to..to your brother-in-law? Who cares?”

The dwarf didn’t laugh this time.  “If you are related, that means that you’ll inherit his company.  And I very much care to get Joffrey away from any source of power.  And I very much care to keep my father away from the company as well.”

He motioned again to the swabs and Gendry complied, opening his mouth and rubbing the inside of his cheek before putting them back into the jar carefully and closing them up.  

Tyrion’s face had gone fierce, and the sudden departure of his humor chilled the air.  “The less power that the Lannister name wields, the better.  A Lannister always pays his debts.  Including this one.”

He stood up and opened the door for Gendry, slipping some bills into his hand.  “Now, go. I should have the results of the test by tomorrow morning. Here, take yourself out today.  I’d imagine that after our little meeting, you’re ready for that cocktail right about now. I know I am.”

 

  


 

 

Ah. There are things that a girl would love about Cyprus.

From the window of his apartment, water glittered and moved; alive, all around the island, flickering in the early evening light. His apartment, well, she would like that as well, and as he walked through the door he imagined her bounding to the window and throwing open the curtains.

Varys had done a good job.

The apartment for this assignment was particularly well-staged, modern, expensive furniture over a massive antique Turkmen rug.  Usually Jaqen would find himself in a barebones flat when he carried out his duties - but this assignment, well, perhaps his target would be coming to visit him, and everything had to look authentic.

Like he was _someone_.

And for this mission, Jaqen was to be _someone._ A mining executive from Turkmenistan.  The oil rich, corrupt former land of the Soviet Union; full of burgeoning natural gas resources was just waiting to be plundered and sold out by a man like his target, the country was like a whore with her legs open, clad in white marble and gold statuary. A rich member of the Russian oligarchy; friend to Russian government and all the shadow lands that lay behind it.

And so _someone_ would find out information from the oligarch. And that someone...that _someone_ that Jaqen would be for his mission was named Anton.  Anton wanted to strike a deal with the target; it is said that the target is mercurial, slightly wanton, and easy to pull information from...when his target wanted a _someone_ like Anton in his bed.

Jaqen didn’t think it had to go that far. A lot can be said, in private, when the soul is moved, even when the flesh has not yet been sated.  And the anticipation of it, the waiting...that is something that a man knew he was good at.  He could keep his target asking, guessing...he would not have to take it too far.

Jaqen winced. A lovely girl would be furious if it did.

Get the information.   _In and out._  

But…the outcome of the operation would be enough to calm her. And the wider circle of operatives working with his target, well, they would be of particular interest to a girl, she would understand his need to take on this particular duty.

So be it.   _No blood._ He had promised. But he could set things up close enough for blood to flow by someone else’s hand, give the gift by proxy.

He mused about her for a moment longer.  Then he remembered: he was no longer Jaqen. _Enough_. He had spent the better part of the week doing recon, learning what he needed to. He was ready. It was time to fully envelop himself in this new face, in this new life, in this new set of experiences.

Just so.

He had not been anyone but himself, for the past years - in fact, he not only was himself, but he was himself plus Arya; and all of the sum of their parts and all of the different combinations of the ephemeral moods or the silent knowing looks had helped him build himself up to the Jaqen that stepped on the plane yesterday.

He barely remembered the snakes that he had killed.  He barely remembered how his blood rose, how rage would fill him, how he’d mete out justice as the others in his order had done. _Now it was time to remember._  Even if this target entailed no blood.  He could still remember - or forget - how to lose himself.

He had duties.

With a smooth motion of his hand over his face, he said a short prayer, the dust of words not used for years mechanically coming to his mouth and washing over his being. As his hand moved he willed his self away, willed Jaqen away; when he finished he inhaled his first breath as Anton.

His face was still the same.  But he was different, he felt different, he moved strangely.

Anton could not be still any longer; time to get down to business.  He had a meeting that evening.  Varys had set up a shadow company for him, using his little birds in the east and the west.  This company would be of great strategic significance to a certain mercurial Russian.

His phone buzzed, but he ignored it. He had duties. 

Anton shaved carefully, assessing his face as if a stranger.  He dressed thoughtfully; _first impressions count._  Especially when one is meeting Aegon Targaryen.

  
  
  


Arya loved Lyanna Mormont. _Loved her_. She was fucking funny and fierce.  They had done a good share of work earlier today and nailed down a timeline for what they had left.

It was always quite hilarious to watch the world underestimate Lyanna, and then receive the sharp end of her stick when she unleashed her raw power on them.

And it was even funnier after they’d had several whiskeys over lunch and then walked through the city to another bar, drunk in the sunlit New York City day.  Lyanna was from Maine, tough and craggy and unafraid of the New Yorkers all around her, and impossibly unsympathetic to the obsequiousness that permeated the publishing industry.  And, she had been a connection through Varys’ web, so she was _safe._

And she could drink.

Arya was spinning, a little bit, after her third. She straightened as they walked past a group of armed soldiers; apparently they were moving through New York City as some type of adjunct law enforcement.  This fucking president...Arya had seen little glimpses of his hand, tightening around the city, and she felt her anger rise up.  Again.

Lyanna looked at them fiercely and they walked on by.

 

She stopped and pulled out her phone when they got to their next destination, some bar that had been untouched by the hipsters and too raw for the Manhattanites.  

“What are you doing?” Lyanna saw the movement.

“Jaqen’s gone. I want to check in with him. I miss him.” Arya tried not to slur, and her S’s hissed instead.

Lyanna rolled her eyes.  “And you don’t have a picture of him? Nothing?”

Arya shook her head, solemnly. “We don’t take pictures together.”

Somehow that was something that Lyanna approved of.  She nodded imperiously, as if blessing Arya’s text.  

_I love you. Miss you. Call me._

As soon as she sent it, she felt annoyed.  Why was she here, acting so...stupid?  And why the fuck had Jaqen wanted to take this job so badly? She knew there was something that he wasn’t telling her.  And why couldn’t he fucking call her back?

_I said: Call me._

She wanted to hear his voice, that single-minded focus on his voice...and then Lyanna snapped her out of it, nudging her to look out the window.

The soldiers had detained someone; they had him up against a car and were roughly searching him.  Lyanna and Arya watched in horror, the whiskey sparking Arya’s anger until she felt Lyanna’s fingers on her arm and she realized that she was starting to walk out the door to intervene.

“Stop. You can’t do anything this way.”  Lyanna’s voice was low, furious, and she kept her eyes on the soldier.  The man was down on the ground now, and they watched as one of the soldiers dealt him a swift kick.

Arya felt the blood drain from her face.  It was enough, it was too much.  She’d been sheltered from all of this upstate, in her own little bucolic world.  Every time she came down to the city, she’d see little hints of the increased policing, notice that the news sounded more like propaganda, wondered at the investigations into foreign intervention that went nowhere.   _Fucking patriots._

Arya scowled. And then stared daggers at her silent phone.

Lyanna motioned to the bartender.  “We’re going to need another.”

They sat and drank their next round in silence, the only sound permeating into the bar coming from the sirens outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teeny tiny little hiatus while I work on another fic that's rattling around in my head. Next chap coming first week of May, by the old gods and the new. : )


	8. the bear likes her whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let's try this again."
> 
> Do over of the chapter 8 hastily posted this morning. 
> 
> Melisandre gets dirty with Aegon, Arya and Lyanna are wasted in NYC when Varys drops the news, and Jaqen feels the fingers of an existential crisis around his neck.

Agitation wasn’t her style, need had never served her.  Haste was for those who would settle. 

No, she’d wait. 

Besides, it was never a good idea to walk blindly into the light, without first allowing your eyes to adjust, to let your pupils to become pinpricks.  So that you can see, see into the light.

And once she looked, she liked everything that she saw as it came into relief, as the light shined over him. 

She could tell his blood was up tonight.  When the streetlights would strobe and expose him to her while they were driving, she’d see his eyes wide open and focused on the road, his fingers gripping the leather steering wheel tightly, his back vertical and his posture alert.  He drove fast, hitting the breaks petulantly when he had to, the muscles on his  arms tightening as they navigated the last lazy curves  up his driveway.

He said nothing, and neither did she. Her hands started to tighten in anticipation. She willed them open, gentle.

_ Wait.  _

This was going more smoothly than she  had hoped. Certainly was more fruitful than anyone had anticipated. She’d been able to send drips and drops of information home, things that she’d glean here and there, and they’d only spent a few evenings together.  She was meant to take him apart piece by piece; he opened for her when he spoke.

Sometimes. And sometimes he would be remote, distant, difficult.  She had been on a calculated offensive to change that. 

At least this time her target was...inspiring. 

Melisandre's last target had been something quite difficult to swallow.  A true act of patriotism on her part.  A fat, balding, noisy man - an oligarch about to go off the rails, and puffed with the self importance that the most treasonous possess.  She’d been paid, but oh, they’d gotten their money’s worth from her.  It had taken everything she had to suffer under his weight, the smell of vodka on him, his awkward pawing, his penis that sat like a potato in her hand. 

She typically took no interest in what happened to her targets after she had reported on them, gave the information needed to justify a death. But when she found out about his tragic demise she allowed a wry grin to stretch over her face.  

Ah, yes,  _ this mission _ ...this mission was a pleasure. 

She wanted to make sure that he was ready to bite. So she’d kept herself at arms length after a  _ verrry  _ intimate date on his boat. 

She could have put a pin on the very moment, the very second that he became fascinated with her. She knew it. His presence was like a hand on her shoulder, it was signed and delivered over and over in the set of his jaw when he looked at her. 

She’d gotten him.

And so making him start to lose his nerve, his mind was not a problem. She’d thought about it and let some inspiration guide her. 

_ Regrets, darling: _ so busy, too busy to see him, kiss kiss, and even when she did ‘make time’, she’d put up a fence for herself, making sure that she had a concrete alibi and an inescapable reason for only seeing him for half an hour at a time. She’d lay one hot finger on him and look over at him seriously, feel his weight start to rest against her even as she pulled the finger back to herself. 

And then she’d let her lips linger softly on his cheek, let her tits press up against him.  And then she’d leave again.

She was bewitching him.  She needed to break him, to make him incoherent. Weaken him. 

  
  


Aegon wasn’t used to being second on anyone’s list. His displeasure had become palpable, noticeable once they made their way inside the large doors and into his wide luxe expanse of home. And then it surfaced.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”  His voice was sharp, the edges broken glass.

“I’ve been busy.”  She kept walking, carefully, looking around the inside of the Targaryan villa.  A massive, modern glass fireplace extended along one wall, hardly useful in the climate of Cyprus. It flickered on with the lights of the house, the gas roaring into flame.

She wondered idly what his skin would look like by the firelight, whether that strange iridescence that radiated from him would succumb to the warm light of the fire, or whether he’d still glow like starlight despite the light of the flames flickering off of him. 

“You are ignoring me. You’re being difficult. I’m not sure quite what you want from me, but I do not waste my time.  Maybe you don’t _ quite _ understand.”

“I  _ have _ been busy.” Melissandre looked up at him. And then she cocked her head towards him. “And maybe I don’t understand.”

Aegon moved towards her, imperiously, and stood over her. She couldn’t tell what she saw in his eyes...a bit of anger, a bit of lust. She watched all of the tells of his face: the line of his nose slightly flaring, his teeth gritted just a bit, his shoulders tensed and alert, finger twitching. 

_ Targaryan madness.  _

Perfect. 

_ Men never crave what they already have.  _

So she wasn’t surprised when his hand pulled into her hair, fisting roughly and he drew her to her toes, smashing his mouth against her and biting at her neck, the involuntary pull back of him as he met her too-hot skin and then accepted the challenge. 

He half pulled, half ripped her dress off, holding her off the ground so that her feet were dangling as he held her up. His kisses were harsh, erratic.   _ Good.  _

One of his long pale hands pinched down towards her and she heard his breath uptake as he looked down at her.  Her breasts, well, tools of her trade, really; they were large and perfect under his hands and suddenly those teeth were on them, and she couldn’t stop a yelp from her mouth as he nipped down and then licked around the curve of one.

She pulled at his shirt.  She wanted to see that strange pale skin, all of it…

He obliged and in a moment he was naked, an ivory statue in front of her, all length and vertical lines, and she looked at the line of his cock, purpled against the rest of his skin, springing from a platinum nest of fine hairs.

Melisandre reached for him. 

At this a cruel smile came to his face. 

“You don’t touch me, not like this.  Turn around.”  He pushed her so that she was up against the fireplace and one of his hands moved to turn on the gas so that suddenly the glass box of it was aflame.

She moved instinctively towards the heat of it, on her knees with her elbows resting along the ledge of it.

For a moment she wondered how the Targaryan madness would manifest right then. He’d been gentle on the boat.  But.. she’d been purposely winding him up for weeks. 

And then she found out. One finger roughed against her sphincter and she felt a burn as he forced it open, the pain mixing with a strange pleasure; she wettened just below his touch. And then the head of him bumped against her, and his finger came out and made way for the tip of him, pushing against her slowly and moving in and out. 

Each tiny stroke was pain, and she felt the ridge of him sliding as he stretched her and he clenched her ass, parting it to watch himself enter her. 

She sucked in a breath despite herself. He hadn’t prepared her, he had merely taken her, and the pain of it overwhelmed the pleasure, the secret of it.

“Relax,” he growled, and then his long fingers entered her cunt, stroking the inside of her.  She couldn’t help but move against them and his cock pressed in, another inch, torturous, but oh...his fingers up against her, touching the walls of her, pressing against his own self….in one movement she felt herself open to him, felt herself let him in and the searing burn of it was so satisfying that she inched against him some more as he groaned.

He had hooked her, his fingers cruelly sliding against the lushness of her but his cock too much, until it wasn’t, and he started to move, restrained at first, then moving faster and faster as he was able to loosen the constriction of her.

She was at his whim, and his fingers and cock were too much, and his greediness, the selfishness in his movements overwhelmed her and she let his movements turn from a rhythm into erratica. He forced her movements. She was hooked, she was his prey, and he felt good in her, powerful, fearsome. 

She watched the fire half lidded as he moved his cock in her, watched the peals of flame lick nearer to the glass, twin to the tingling of heat she felt spreading through her.

And him, he was swelling and then his other hand reached up to grip her breast, hard, as he leaned down on her, still keeping that unnerving pace, and suddenly she felt the heat of him as he came inside of her, the sudden pulsing of him in her ass ricocheting through her core, his fingers tightening to pain on her as he came. 

_ Good _ . 

He was vulnerable now, sated, pressed so far up into her that his pelvis rested on the softness of her ass, and she reached under herself, quickly touching the exposed base of him, tingling fingers over his balls and stretching her arm she reached up his taint and to his own entrance, circling it and then pushing a finger against the ring of muscle, wet with his own semen, with her arousal.  

He pushed up against her fingers and made a throaty noise, and with two fingers she pushed into him and he ground against her in a practiced move and she  _ knew _ . She understood now, she’d heard rumors but he’d been so discreet.

There was more than one way to bring Aegon Targaryan to his edge. 

  
  
  


Three bars later.  

Arya and Lyanna were quite...drunk.

Lyanna had shed her button up shirt, sitting in the sticky New York evening heat with a tank top on, and Arya marveled at the massive bear tattoo that graced her arm.

Lyanna looked at her with vicious glee. 

“It’s a family tradition, really, but also there to remind me not to take anyone’s shit.”  Lyanna laughed into her drink. “Since, you know, all five feet of me is so intimidating.  Fuckers.”

Arya didn’t know who the fuckers were, exactly, but she could commiserate.

Arya glanced down at her phone again.  Jaqen hadn’t answered any of her texts. 

“Fucking ay. Where in the actual fuck could he be?”  She wasn’t nervous...just irritated, that hot, irrational anger that half a dozen whiskeys can produce on someone with a small frame...the type that usually leads to a staggering, sometimes unasked-for singing.  

She slammed her phone down.

“Arya. Fuck it. Seriously. He’s off gallivanting around…” Lyanna slurred at her and Arya held one finger up in the air. 

“He’s not...whatever you just said. He’s working.” Arya tried to look sternly at Lyanna. It was impossible.  She had already cracked that code, they were co-conspirators. 

“What is he even doing over there? Oh, you can’t tell me. But do you even know?” Lyanna knew. She knew Varys, she’d had some dealings with the order, her family had been a benefactor early to Varys’ cause.  It gave Lyanna a strong sense of social justice and a nosy streak.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, I got Jaqen-speaked at. _‘There is a man, and a man is a man, and_ ….’” Arya giggled wickedly.  Then she sat up.  “You know who would know?  Varys. We should give him a little call.”

Lyanna perked up and Arya put earphones in, giving Lyanna one and putting the other in her own ear.  She dialed.

 

Varys voice was fluttery, as usual; Arya had no idea what part of the world he was in at the moment, didn’t know if it was morning or deep night, but he answered chirpily.

“Arya Stark. To what do I owe the pleasure?”  

“You sent Jaqen somewhere, and I still never got an answer for him why he had to go. Why is he...there?”  Arya tried her best not to slur her words, sitting up straight.

Lyanna stifled a snicker. Poorly. 

Varys giggled a little bit. “Arya, this mission is a little bit too delicate to talk about...when you’re...where are you, anyhow?”

“Bar. With Lyanna. Tell me. Delicate how.”  Somehow Arya found herself slumping again. 

Varys snorted. “He didn’t tell you anything about it?”

Arya waved her hands as she spoke. “‘A man blah blah blah. Close to the target blah blah.’  Tell me Varys.  Or I’ll never work for you again.”

She thought that sounded decisive enough. Lyanna looked impressed. 

“Oh, Arya Stark. That is a threat. We need more help, not less. But I don’t think this is a topic for right now.”  Varys wasn’t going to give it up.

“Delicate HOW Varys. You said no blood.”  Arya crooked an eyebrow. Varys was slippery, but he’d usually tell her...some of what she wanted to hear.

He sighed, and in her mind’s eye she saw his pudgy hands fluttering in the air. 

“Arya, Jaqen’s going to use his considerable charm to try to extract information from a Russian.”

Arya blinked.  _ Charm? _ She’d heard Varys use that term before...when one of the female members of Jaqen’s order had to sleep with someone. In fact, that was the only time he’d ever used that term. It was a distinct indicator that intel needed to get close and deep with a target. 

“Charm? What are you talking about? What the fuck?”  She felt her nostrils flare. 

“Ah, I’ve said too much, and I don’t want to start a lover’s quarrel. Arya Stark. Call me when you’re sober.”  Varys hung up before she could say another word and her mouth hung open with the indignity of the interruption. 

She looked at the phone and set it down at the table. 

Lyanna didn’t get the terminology. And, since she typically didn’t trade in hysteria, she didn’t see what the problem was. “Okay, Arya, well that was nothing about nothing.  Why are you so worked up?”

“‘ _ Use his charm _ .  That’s code. Jaqen’s going to fuck someone.’” Arya stood up.  She could have thrown the table over.

_ No, she couldn’t. _ It was bolted to the floor. She sat back down, shaking her head. 

“Jaqen’s going to fuck someone to get information.  And he didn’t tell me.”

She picked up her phone as if to check it again and set it back down at the table.  Furious at first, and then the anger deflated and her mouth hung heavy, sad, wondering.

Lyanna looked at her and gestured over to the cocktail waitress. 

“Another round.”

  
  
  
  


A man did not usually get defeated.

Not really. 

If something didn’t happen as planned, there were usually other things to handle. Time was never wasted, time was a gift. 

Waiting outside of Aegon Targaryan’s office for an hour without so much as a phone call to cancel a meeting that had taken weeks of work from many to prepare for, well, that felt like a waste. 

Jaqen wondered what he was doing here. 

Aegon was fickle. The file that he had received from Varys about Aegon pointed to a man with great ideas, who would swing from one to the other without a second’s hesitation.  His family had been mad, mad.

And so it felt like a fool’s errand to be sent over to this part of the world to try to ensnare this man, who may or may not want to be ensnared, who may or may not want to commit to a deal with the carefully crafted persona of Jaqen’s identity, and who may or may not be responsible for political unrest that impacted millions of people in the democratic west. 

And Jaqen had gone on this mission like a new recruit.  And was failing like one, as well.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket and he looked at it.  Arya. There was no way he could talk to a lovely girl right now, not with the taste of failure in his mouth.

Besides, if she knew what he had to do...before he actually did it, well, the more he thought about it, the more he realized it would be a betrayal. If he succeeded, well, it would be worth it in her eyes. Arya would give some rein on his methods, just so long as the outcome was satisfactory. 

If he did not succeed, or if he quit and she had found out what he was planning on doing, well...he braced himself a little against the thought of her, apoplectic.  And he had never felt the sharp edge of her temper, not really.  Nor did he want to. 

Jaqen sighed and walked back over to his hotel. 

  
  



	9. Olenna Tyrell's Cadillac

Sansa walked through security at the Atlanta airport and into the arms of her loving husband.

Who held her delicately, as if she was a flower whose petals he did not want to crush, as if she was a butterfly whose wings would smudge and crumple.

It was better that way, Sansa thought, better to feel the difference, to balance the logical, controlled love of her husband against the dark things that Petyr had done to her in the night.

She made sure that she did not stiffen in Willas’ arms.

His face wore the lines of a grieving son, of a soon-to-be heir too busy untangling all of the fishing lines that Olenna Tyrell had cast out into the world to secure her empire.  He looked tired, and Sansa felt pity for him, guilt and pity, and she swallowed all of it down and armored herself as best she knew how, a gracious smile covering her face.

Of course he grabbed her luggage, of course he looked into her eyes and asked her how her meeting went _(“More controversial than expected,” Sansa lied, “In fact I can only stay for a few days, we have more work to do…”)_  and of course, once they were settled in a long gleaming Cadillac that still smelled thick with the heavy rose scent of Olenna Tyrell, he reached over and placed his lips gently on her cheek.

_Oh, Willas, you should be making someone happy.  Someone besides me._

Highgarden was more than an hour from the airport and Sansa busied herself by asking Willas questions.  The service, the flowers that they’d received, the profiles of Olenna to come in the Georgia papers.  The funeral was tomorrow.

She wanted to jump out of the car right then and there, jump out of the smothering guilt that she felt and run back to the airport.

 

She didn’t.

  
  


She remembered, when they pulled up to Highgarden, how excited she’d been when she first saw it.  It was like a castle, it was like Gone With the Wind, and Sansa felt like an American princess, smoothing her dress and walking up to meet Olenna for the first time.

She loved Willas then.  She loved him with the softness and exuberance of a first love.  He’d been everything she’d wanted since she knew what she wanted.

Stepping out of the car she saw shadows move inside the windows and she wondered which of the Tyrells would greet her, if they’d see right through her.

  


Margaery walked up to her and gave her kiss on the cheek, clutched her hands quickly.  As they pulled back, Sansa saw Margaery’s face the moment before the smile moved back over her lips, before the look of feigned kind interest moved into her eyes.

She saw her without the mask, Margaery’s eyes with cold scrutiny, and Sansa knew then that she’d seen right through her.

Margaery was almost preternaturally perceptive.  She’d been watching Sansa withdraw mentally from Willas for months and Sansa had felt the sting of it, little by little.   _What has Willas been telling her?_

Sansa froze and then let her own mask move over her face, let the enormity of the day seep into her.  They would be burying Olenna Tyrell tomorrow, and whatever Sansa wanted to feel or to be needed to be separated from herself, swallowed and kept secret.  

Grief, empathy was the best mask.

Sansa shouldered it and continued on to the Tyrell household.

 

\--

 

Olenna’s funeral was the next day.  Sansa hadn’t slept in the hot Georgia night, Willas’ arm an unwanted weight over her.  She woke the next day sticky and irritated and impatient.

And then she remembered.  Grief and empathy.

Standing at Willas’ side during the funeral, the thick sunlight rippled over the funeral goers, turning some of the white marble tombstones into flickering beacons, too bright to look at.  The funeral had drawn at least a few hundred people, murmuring spread out over the crowd and a reverent silence as the family spoke, the too-sweet smell of multitudes of flowers rotting in her nostrils.

A thud of red earth on the casket that held Olenna Tyrell’s earthly remains, and then in a wave of sympathy, she clutched Willas’ unwanted fingers that were already woven into her own.

The Rose and all of her Thorns were now returned to the earth.

Sansa followed, dutifully, a pace behind Willas as the Tyrell family entered a waiting bridgade of long black cars and the family gathered once again at Highgarden to mourn.

 

\--

The funeral was partially an event for mourning but mostly an event to jockey closest to the favor of the heirs of the Tyrell estate.

Too bad the heirs were the ones mourning.

A weariness that clung to their shoulders. Every smile came a half-beat too slow.

She mourned, too; for the tough old bat that had clung to life tenaciously, for the children who had lost their matriarch, their guidestar. And in smaller, meaner moments for the death of her marriage, buried along with Olenna.  And a sneaky, secret victory of her own, thinking about Petyr.  

 

It was confusing.

 

She had to get out, once they reached Highgarden the press of people and murmurs and the falsity of mourning choked her throat, stole her breath.

Sansa walked into an upstairs bathroom and closed the door.

She took her phone out of her pocket and looked.  Nothing.

 

She sent a quick text.   _Soon. Tomorrow?_

Before she could even put it back in her pocket it buzzed in her hand.

_Too long. Want you._

Her heart skipped.  And then it buzzed again.

_Where are you?_

Her fingers moved of their own volition to answer him.

_Alone. Tyrell estate. The funeral party._

She held her breath and stared at the screen.

_Take one finger. Just one. Lick it._

Sansa obeyed. And shivered.   _And?_

She could imagine his face, imagine his eyes narrowing as he watched her, to make sure that she complied the way he wanted her to.

_I want you to reach down and touch yourself, sweet Sansa, take your finger and gently trace around your cunt._

Sansa could hear the people downstairs, but they were downstairs, and she was locked in the upstairs bathroom.

She complied, at first with a feather touch and then pushed her finger against herself, whirling it around her nub, feeling herself slicken.

_Take it out.  Smell it for me._

Not enough, not enough, one finger and just for a moment. He was torturing her. She pulled her finger out and bit her lip, felt her blood rise.

She shivered and felt her lip curl in a secret before she replied: _mmm you’d love it._

 

Torture is something to share, sometimes.  Her lip curled further at the speed of his reply.

 

_Take your finger and rub your scent on your beautiful neck. I want him to smell you._

Sansa’s eyes darkened with the wickedness of it. _Done._

Petyr was so filthy, so bad. Sansa shivered.  Later.

 

_He’ll smell you but I’ll have you._

 

Sansa heard footsteps in the hallway and grabbed the phone.  She felt a redness rise up her neck and to her cheeks, her own intentions coming to the light, coloring her face.

_Petyr. I have to go.  Soon._

She put the phone in her pocket and turned off the ringer.  And then she washed her hands and waited for the footsteps to walk by.  Once the hall quieted she opened the door to slip back into the maelstrom of people down the stairs.

Margaery was standing in the hallway.

Sansa saw Margaery’s face move into a smile, a sweet one, quizzical.

False, a mask.

Sansa breathed in.  “Margaery, how are you all holding up?  So many people here, your grandmother would have been happy.”

Margaery only allowed her brow to furrow for a moment.

“She would have hated it, you know that, Sansa. Now let’s get back down there. Willas is all alone in his time of need.”  Margaery gave Sansa a look and hooked her arm, walking her down the stairs.

Sansa was aware that she wore a musky smell like a ribbon around her neck, and walked back into the celebration of Olenna Tyrell’s life and death with her sister in law’s arm like a vise in her own, and her sweet husband brightening when he saw her.

She wondered if the ghost of Olenna Tyrell would come after her, wondered if the sharp eyes had seen what she had just done.  And then she straightened.  One more day and she could go back to the dark thing, the thing that no one else knew, that no one else had.

Hers and hers alone.

  
  
  


\---

  


Melisandre spread herself out in front of the fireplace and let herself come down with the flames on one side and Aegon on the other.

He had his eyes closed and there was a softness about him, post-orgasm, that never translated into his days. Melisandre looked at the beestung pout of his lips; his cheekbones here high and his skin was luminous in the firelight.

She watched his chest rise and fall calmly.

She reached out and touched him, one fingertip stroking the impossibly soft skin on his side.

He twitched, and jerked back from her touch.

_What?_

His entire being changed.  An irritation radiated off of him, and he moved away from her touch with a glare.  

Melisandre tried again, different.  A spooked animal needs calm, Melisandre would be calm…

She pretended like she didn’t notice his glare and nestled back down, turning herself on her side toward him so that her back could drink in the radiating heat, that her hip would just up just so, so that her breasts were heavy.  She narrowed her eyes, like a sleepy cat.

Too late.  He was already sitting up.  He looked at her with a shortness.

 

_Targaryan madness._

He was standing, still naked, but moving quickly now.  His hands moved over the counter until he found his phone, checked it and she saw a shadow move over his face.

“I was so busy thinking about your cunt that I forgot about a meeting.  Fuck. Fuck. I have to go back.” His tone was sharp, his words like arrows, and she could see his mind moving, moving, moving.

She arched as gracefully as she could while showing some haste, an acknowledgement of his words.  “Who are you meeting with?  It’s not too late.”

He fairly hissed his impatience and then she saw him catch himself, and modulate his own voice to take away the irritation.  

“Only a man that controls half of the pipelines from Turkmenistan.  Anton. This could be a huge deal. This..this is freedom.”  He arched an eyebrow at her and a little smile spread across his face. “ _Svoboda._ ”  He looked away at her to tap out a message on his phone and then he quickly reached over for a kiss.   _Mercurial Targaryan._

“Let’s go. I’ll take you back to Limassol.”

Melisandre paused. _Perfect._

“Why don’t I come with you? It won’t take too long, no?”

 

An animal needs to be calm, but an animal also always strikes when its prey is in front of it.

  
  


\--

  


Jaqen had come back to his hotel room with his eyes full of a lovely girl.

 

She had texted him again and again and he had not yet answered.

He couldn’t face her.  He’d come home.  This was madness. Whatever a man had thought he was doing, he could do no longer; there was no longer a fire in the pit of him to find this snake, ro bring him to justice.

 

And that is how men get killed, when they do not feel the call of it, when they do not yearn to make a thing happen.

 

He lay back and undid his pants.  He let his mind flash on big gray eyes, on the way that her shoulder curved, the shape of a breast, the flick of a tongue.

His hand moved slowly, curved around himself.  All the times that he had wanted to take Arya Stark slowly, to make his bride writhe under him for hours.  And she always made him lose control.

Not tonight.

He lay on the bed, stroking himself, slowly and heavily and just as he wanted.  He didn’t know how long he was there; the noise of the city below still carried on below him.  His fingers slicked up and down himself and he allowed his thoughts to break apart from the visual, to become a collection of impressions and feelings and his fingers tightened, feeling himself strain under his own hands.

And right as he felt himself get bigger and bigger, almost escape from the sweetness of his own finger he stopped cold.  A noise. Sharp.

His phone. Ringing the short beep of the ring it was meant to trill when his target communicated. 

 

Aegon had remembered, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone's a little frustrated atm


	10. deer season

Arya was battling quite possibly the biggest hangover she’d ever had. 

Every step she took stirred the snakepit of nausea that rustled in her belly, threatened to go up her throat.  Her head pounded its opposition to every movement she took.

She lay back down on the bed, rustling to find the coolest part sheet against her skin.  No. Not cool enough.  Still whirling. No horizon.  _ Fuck. _

Arya staggered to the bathroom and mercifully threw up, lying down on the cool of the tile floor, waiting for herself to normalize, allow her to get up and get ready for the day. 

_ Fucking Lyanna.  _

Arya smiled ruefully.  At least Lyanna would be feeling it as well.  And if not, that little bear was made of sturdier stock than she was. 

 

\--

 

Showered, only mildly nauseous, and with two ibuprofen starting to fight a battle against her headache, Arya dressed in the most comfortable clothes she had packed and put her sunglasses on.  

There were no messages on her phone.  She scrolled to see how many times she had pinged Jaqen. 

Her nostrils flared. Seven drunken texts to her loving husband, and not one of them answered.

She narrowed her eyes and walked out to meet Lyanna for the 9 a.m. meeting that had sounded like a good idea last week.  

This was so atypical of Jaqen.   _ What was he doing?  _  And why was she so compelled to talk to him?  The clutching was not typical of herself, either. 

She scowled.  She didn’t like it. None of it.  Feeling a black cloud gather over herself, she moved up the New York sidewalk. 

 

\--

 

Lyanna was an appropriate shade of green and gave Arya a weak, commiserating smile when she walked up.

“I could fucking kill you for asking for this meeting,” she whispered, squeezing Arya’s shoulder before they sat down in front of Lyanna’s distribution manager.

Ayra grinned wickedly and turned her mind to task.

 

\--

 

One achingly long hour later and she’d tied up the last of her business in New York City.  Arya longed for home, wanted to get back upstate and into the privacy of her house.  Jaqen’s house.  She fidgeted with her phone.  Anger and worry and her hangover were twisting her. 

Lyanna raised an eyebrow.  “Did you finally talk to your sweet husband?” She simpered, mocking, but not meanly.  

Arya scowled again. “No. I don’t know what his deal is. It’s so strange.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes, slightly.  “Why don’t you go see him?  I mean, you’re done here for now; I won’t have anything for you to do for at least a month.  It’s a long game, Arya, and it’s better to know what the hell is going on instead of trying to drink your way through the city.”

Arya winced.  She would never drink again,  _ never. _

When they parted she squeezed Lyanna.  “Come up to Winterfell next summer.  A few weeks. You’d love it; Jon will be there, we’ll camp and ride and get away from all of this.”  She pinched Lyanna quickly and the other woman reddened; Lyanna was known to have a slight crush on her older brother, who she’d only met in passing. 

Lyanna smiled back.  “First of all, shut the fuck up.  Second of all, I’d love to.  I’ll get a hold of you when we have to do our next round of meetings; let me get some press lined up and see who will bite on this very anonymous book that you  _ didn’t _ just write.”

Arya’s mood was abated, briefly, and she made her way back to her hotel to pack her stuff and leave the city. 

Her phone out in her hand, walking in the crowded sidewalks...like those people that she had turned her nose up at so many times.  _  Fucking zombies. _  And here she was, just like them, only worse:  a stupid girl, lamely waiting for her boyfriend to call, walking with her head facing her phone.

She corrected herself mentally.   _ Her fucking husband.  _

Her head collided with something solid, soft, and she quaked with embarrassment. Fucking zombie!  She leaned down to pick up the paper that fell out of her bag and murmured ‘’Sorry” before looking up.

Well, fucking hell. She knew him.

 

Gendry. 

 

“Arya?”  Recognition dawned on his face and he smiled.

“Oh my god, Gendry. I can’t believe that of all the people in the world, I run into YOU!  What are you…”  Arya sputtered, reddened.  Stupid. Stupid. 

She looked at Gendry.  She hadn’t seen him in almost six years. He had filled out, still tall and lean but his shoulders more broad; his face had changed and lost some of its softness, aged a little. His head was a shaggy mop of curly black hair but his eyes were the same blue that she remembered, the blue of the shallows of Lake Superior in the summer sun. 

She smiled back and murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

Gendry had reached down to hug her. “Arya. Thought I’d never see you again. You just vanished from Chicago after…” his words trailed off and he colored slightly.

_ After your parents died.   _ Arya had torn into him when he tried to give her his condolences years ago.  That was the last time she’d seen him.  They’d dated, briefly; he was too meek, too much of a follower then. And she’d been vicious. In front of his eyes, his friendly smile she felt slightly guilty. 

She put her hand on his forearm, gently.

_ “ _ I know. It’s been a long time. How the hell are you, Gendry?” 

“Really good.  Really strange. You wouldn’t believe why I’m even out here...I don’t even believe it myself.”  Gendry was different. 

Arya grinned. “Tell me about it.  And I’ll buy you a coffee.”

She motioned to a cafe up the block.  

Gendry checked his watch and nodded.  “A quick one.  And I’ll buy YOU the coffee.”

 

\--

  
  


Jon loved Ygritte’s property.  

It was so different than Winterfell, well, everything up here was different than Winterfell.  The Upper Peninsula was wild and beautiful and savage, and Winterfell was huge, not luxurious by normal means, but absolutely palatial compared to most homes in Northern Michigan.

And well, Ygritte’s family lived up in the Porcupine Mountains and they’d created a little compound that was completely off the grid, with a fully stocked bomb shelter carved into the rocks, a rats nest of wires connecting to solar panels, a bank of henhouses and pigpens, rough cabins that huffed the sweet smell of woodsmoke into the clear blue air. 

No wonder she was so wild.  Her parents had homeschooled her, and for the first twelve years of her life she’d never set foot off her own property.

She knew the land like she knew the contours of Jon’s body; better, probably.

He shouldered his rifle and walked behind her.  They were hunting; deer season had begun and Ygritte wanted to get a few deer to process for her family, take some back to Marquette.  

Not that anything as prescribed as “deer season” meant anything to Ygritte; they hunted year round.  But still. Jon was a professor and getting popped shooting off season was no good. 

They silently moved through the woods and he watched her footfalls, making sure to stay on the silent loamy pad of earth under the trees, to avoid anything that would crack or belie their presence to the game. 

And when he was sure of their steps, he let his eyes wander up and admire the line of her muscles, the strong-slightness of her, walking in front of him, red hair escaping from a messy bun and weirdly contrasting against her hunter orange of her vest. 

They had come upon a meadow and stopped at the edge of it.  They were completely alone; Ygritte’s family owned about 80 acres of rugged, hilly land and they’d already hiked miles from the nearest dirt track.  It was beautiful, and from this side of the mountain they could see the dark blue of Lake Superior in the distance. 

Jon leaned over to steal a kiss from her and she obliged, more than obliged; her tongue swiped against him fiercely and he had to still a giggle when she growled just a bit.  Fierce Ygritte.  He’d take her in the woods later, he’d take her in the cave that she’d shown him, he’d take her over and over.  She enflamed him.

He felt himself start to swell and then she pulled back from him, sharp concern on her face.  A strange buzzing noise.  A small object appeared over the forest and came into relief over them and flying about fifty feet over the ground, over the field.

_ A drone? _

Ygritte’s eyes narrowed and before Jon could stop her she pulled her hunting rifle up.

_ Crack. _

In a pulse of metal, the drone went down in the field.

Ygritte pulled her rifle back up and shot at it again, as if wanting to make sure it was dead.

“What the fuck is that?”  Jon was in disbelief. 

“Fucking homeland security. My da’s been talking about them.  He said he’d only heard rumors, but here it is.”  She scowled; she was fierce, she was angry and she loped over to it, deer forgotten.  

Sure enough, a black drone, with a serial number.  It looked like a more advanced version of some of the drones Jon’s squad had used in Afghanistan; it was definitely government. It had no business being up here. Homeland security, again.  He noted, quickly, that the tracking mechanism on it was still intact and he grabbed his rifle and pushing her back away from it, shot it again at close range to shatter the mechanism. 

She went to grab it but Jon shook his head.  “Let’s go. Where there’s one, there’s more.  Leave it.”  He pulled her arm quickly back out of the field and under cover of the forest, staying under the deep shade and pulling her into a run.

They made it to a small indentation in a rocky outcropping; tree branches formed a cathedral of green over them, thick enough to darken the light. 

Panting, he pulled her to him and put his finger over her lips to still her.  

Overhead, they heard a mechanical whirring and whine as another drone passed over the same route as the first. 

Ygritte went to grab her satellite phone; cell signals didn’t work up here.  Once the whine had diminished she dialed a number and left a quick message. 

“Da. Shot down a drone. Go underground. Who knows what the fuck it wanted.”

They looked at each other without a trace of lust, without a ghost of a smile; even more silently than before they picked their way back through the forest. 

They had been quiet before; as befits a predator, but now they had to be as silent as prey. 


	11. An irritant

Jaqen had been...interrupted.  

 

And it was too late to continue with his activities.  But..that was alright.  _ Every thing has its time _ , he thought as he looked at himself in his hand, starting to soften back into compliance against its own wishes,  _ and now is not the time for that.  _

Even as his rational side moved onto his duties there was a part of him, a little glimmer in the back of his brain, that resented the interruption, and he could feel the pent-up need still bubbling under the surface. 

_ Channel it.  _

Now is the time to meet this one Aegon.

Jaqen freshened himself.  And looked into the mirror, Anton staring back at him.  He swallowed and stretched his shoulders, gave himself the broad smile that Anton would use, opened his eyes widely.   _ Oh, he’d lower them if he needed to, into the look that would make his bride bite her lip, if he caught her at the right time _ ...but he wanted to keep  _ that _ look for when he needed it.

Anton walked out to meet Aegon at the place indicated, a restaurant across town, and Anton hailed a cab, slipping seamlessly into directing the driver in English accented with the language of the Turkmen, a slight Russian pitch to it. 

 

\---

 

Anton had arrived before Aegon, and he was led to a table with a window of the sea. He scanned the crowd inconspicuously.  Information about Aegon’s possible associates here in Cyprus had been scant. 

He only knew about this one man he saw, now striding towards him. 

The photos of Aegon had shown a tall, lean man, silvery in color, almost as if there was a slight albinism to him, a notion dispelled by dark, almost violet eyes and dark arched eyebrows. In person, he had a look of cruelty that all of the Targaryans possessed; an imperiousness that all of the oligarchs possessed. 

And three steps behind Aegon was a woman that Jaqen had  _ not _ expected; a thin woman, voluptuous, with long dark red hair and milkskin and a look on her face that he could not read. 

 

A complication. 

 

Anton stood to greet them. 

“Aegon Targaryan. Good evening, or as we’d say in Ashgabat:  agşamyňyz haýyrly bolsun.”   

He watched to see if the Turkmen language meant anything to Aegon, watched to see if his face would flicker. 

_ Nothing. _ Just so. A man’s grip of the Turkmen language was not at the top of his mind; Russian, yes; Turkish, yes, but Turkmen…it had been a long time. 

The silver man spoke without preamble, hurriedly. “Unbelievable that I missed our meeting earlier. I’m sorry.” He gave a quick glance at the redhead next to him. “Melisandre.”

Anton looked at her and flashed  _ that _ smile to a face that did not change. “Enchante.  Anton Zurali.”

Aegon moved quickly, he was like mercury bubbling, moving, different parts of him catching the light, reflecting it.  His movements were so strange  - self-assured and lithe but impossible to predict; his face would cycle through expressions with each breath he took.  He had almost an angelic androgyny about him, even though he was very male; his lips were full and his bone structure sculpted. His forearms were long and sleek with muscle and the faintest down of platinum, almost hairless. 

He was not like any that Jaqen, and so also Anton, had known.  It was as if Aegon’s mind was cycling more quickly than anyone else in the room, as if he was an alien sent to earth.

The woman, she’d be a problem. Nothing was known about her, she had not appeared in any dossiers.  So, not a business partner, not a wife or a long-time girlfriend;  _ and anyways, a wife would contradict the intelligence that supported this mission.  _

Anton turned sharply to the table and sat down, fluid. The woman still had not said anything. She had a deliberative air to her movements, as if every twitch of her muscles was completely under control.  And plan. 

_ This woman was a problem.  _

Anton nodded.  He did not want to let Aegon think that he could walk all over him. “Sorry to have missed you earlier.”

Aegon nodded, almost apologetically. The eyes and eyebrows moved into a furrow and then released. “Ah, I know it’s late. We can at least have a bottle of wine tonight?  We’ll schedule a follow up where we can get into details.  But there are  _ some _ details we can get out of the way. The wine itself can be an apology.”

He looked at the soundless waiter who seemed to emerge from the shadows as Aegon turned. “‘96 Chateau Lafite.” A five thousand dollar bottle, rolling off his lips. A command, and the waiter disappeared again. 

Anton looked at Melisandre.  _ How to tease her role out. _ He was trying to calculate her worth to Aegon, based on the interactions he’d seen; a meager sample, to be sure, but one worked with what was at hand.  

He made a calculation all the same: he could anger her, and it might break her mask, and Aegon would not be too upset.  He’d have  _ her _ define their relationship herself.  It would be telling to see the answer. 

“Melisandre. You’re with the Targaryan empire as well?” He smiled, a small thing, just for her. 

He knew she wasn’t, he’d figured that she was on some sort of outing with him. He could see a slight flush in her cheeks and a feline pull of her limbs.  _  He just fucked her. But it’s nothing. To him.  _

Her head moved down, in a way that made her eyes look like half moons when she looked up at him. Her face was so serious, pretty.  “No, not at all.” 

She didn’t say anything else by way of explanation but kept his eyes.  A good answer, when one doesn’t know.  _ She didn’t give anything up. _

_ A problem. An irritant.  _

He watched as the waiter poured a little circle of wine into a crystal glass for Aegon to taste and then into their glasses, delicate little things, the wine a deep, dark red that matched with the woman’s hair. 

Aegon raised his glass, mouth half upturned, eyes intense on Anton.  He didn’t even look at the woman as his arm moved towards Anton, the thin crystal shining, a toast. 

_ There was his answer. _

And so he answered in turn, looking only at Aegon as they all toasted, lowering his eyes in such a way that a certain lovely girl would usually pick up like a cat registers the flicker of a mouse. 

“A new venture,” Aegon murmured, and Anton looked at the turn of his mouth as he said it, a mouth both cruel and tender.  A strange flicker, a challenge, and the sudden cessation of a man’s release earlier seemed to surface, slightly.

There could be no other reason

In the corner of his eye, Anton saw the red woman silently sip her wine, not attempting to join their little toast, not invited; and she was watching him with eyes that seemed to smolder, softly, an undisturbed ember crackling. 

 

Anton smiled back, his lip curving into a bit of a smirk, and tasted the precious wine. 

 

_ It was delicious.  _

  
  
  


\---

  
  
  


Breakfast was torture, but Sansa knew that in a few hours she’d be able to take her already-packed bags - _ or, really, sweet Willas carry them, he’d insist -   _  and sit in Olenna Tyrell’s long shiny car, black and long just like the hearse of Olenna’s last ride, and sit in the front seat and die just a little bit until she got on the plane and back to Chicago. 

But first: grits and eggs and fresh fruit with all of the Tyrells, downcast and mourning.

She had scrubbed herself almost raw this morning, scrubbed her neck where the telltale smell of her lust had lingered last night, scrubbed every bit of magnolia pollen and errant Georgia sunshine off of her, scrubbed away some of the guilt that she felt after tucking up against Willas, wondering why she could not muster for him any of the raging lust she’d been feeling, why she was so hell-bent on what was surely destructive and at the very least complicated.

Willas was quiet; they were all quiet. Sansa kept her eyes down. She had no strength to deal with the overwhelmingly skilled social niceties of the Tyrell family. 

It didn’t matter.  They wanted to deal with her. 

Margaery spoke first. “It’s really too bad you have to leave today, Sansa.  We’re planning a trip out to Grandmother’s cabin, at the lake, later this weekend.”

Olenna Tyrell’s “cabin” was a 4,000 square foot monstrosity.

Sansa pulled her face into a smile.  “I know, I know. I wish I could stay; I’ve got an emergency meeting of one of my boards and I really should attend.”

Margaery persisted, cocking her head quizzically. Sansa could have killed her.  “And you can’t just phone in?  What board is it for?”  Sansa had met Margaery - and Willas - through the charity work that she did in Chicago. 

 

_ Danger.  Danger.  _

 

“Oh, it’s the Greater Food Bank. I’d rather not call in. Always so hard to hear.”  Sansa dropped her lashes and pushed a forkfull of melon across her plate. 

“The Food Bank?” Shit. Sansa had forgotten that Margaery was connected to their board.  Fuck. Fuck. 

Then Margaery smiled sweetly, and fixed her eyes on Sansa with an intensity that would melt steel. 

“Of course. I know that there have been some...issues, lately, with sponsorships.  Oh, well. Willas will miss you!  He needs you here, possibly  _ more than Chicago’s hungry do.” _

_ Sansa tried to withdraw. _ Fuck. Fuck. 

She raised her head and looked at Margaery, a hint of imperiousness in her eyes.  “It’s not the entire board, Margaery, it’s work that I’m doing in hand with their partnership manager.  We’re looking over an opportunity to merge with another organization. I really do need to be there.”

Her voice was ice. 

She turned to Willas and warmed herself.  “You’ll be fine, here, you’ve got your whole family...all of the Tyrells have come home to roost.” She patted a hand over his and kept it there; a symbol of her dominance. 

Margaery didn’t address Sansa directly for the rest of the meal.  So much the better.

  
  


\--

 

Willas did carry her luggage, Willas did open the door, Willas did drive the Cadillac as if he had precious cargo inside and all the while Sansa’s guilt built up and bubbled over, her fingers clutching and unclutching as she sat in the car. 

At the airport, he walked her to security and leaned down to kiss her face.  He brushed an errant hair off of her cheek and stood looking at her.  

She couldn’t fucking stand it. 

“I’ll be another week, at least. I love you, Sansa, I’ll call you as we work all of this out.”  He pressed his lips up to her mouth and his tongue, tentative, slipped into her mouth, a meek exploration of his wife. 

Sansa kissed him back, tepidly.  She felt her eyes well.  _ Oh Willas.  _

When they separated she looked at him. “I’m sorry, Willas.”  The tears were falling, she couldn’t take it. 

“Oh Sansa. She lived enough to fill many lifetimes. Don’t be sad.”

She nodded and mutely waved goodbye, walking into security, Willas watching her to make sure that she would be safe and protected on her way back to Chicago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little short chaps as they come to me...hope you don't mind? let me know!
> 
> and yes, we're still building here, lots of relationships to create a foundation for. hope you're okay with some plot/character work right now. promise someone will get lucky, soon. Oh I KNOW why you're here. ; )


	12. pandora

He really couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that this ghost from his past had materialized; human form, very real: dark hair and pale skin, colliding into him, long white fingers pulling at the papers she had dropped, a flush of embarrassment pinking her cheeks.  

Something like this doesn’t just happen. Ghosts don’t appear, not like this, not without some meaning.  

He hadn’t seen Arya Stark in a long, long time, a lifetime ago. He couldn’t keep her then, he’d felt her slipping away from him and clutched her to keep him, and the tighter he held his fingers together the more she slipped through them.   _But that was then..._

He stole glances at her while they walked up to the cafe she had motioned to; she looked longer, more grown but the rough coltish grace that he’d liked so much had matured into something else.  Not quite tame, not quite graceful. Not the restless, angry girl he had dated before. Wiser. More self assured.

It was intriguing.

Arya bought two coffees and they sat down at a little table outside the cafe, pedestrians moving alongside of them.  Privacy, in the middle of the city, in the middle of a stream of people who didn’t care if they were there.  Perfect.

She took a sip of her coffee and she looked up at him with those gray eyes, a tinge of purple underneath, lashes long and dark.

“So I won’t believe why you’re here?  Go ahead, Gendry Waters, let’s see if you can shock me.”  Her mouth curved up in a little smile.

He felt a little thrill and stretched himself back lazily.  He saw her eyes move to his shoulders, his arms and he almost pulled back inward.  He stopped himself and reddened a little bit, instead.

“Well, I kept getting these letters. ‘ _Dear Mr. Waters_ , _we have exciting news from you.’_ Bullshit, right?  I was expecting them to be a total scam, kept ripping them up.  I mean, it still might be a scam...I guess I’ll find out today. I was supposed to meet the guy yesterday but he said he needed more time. I’m on my way to his office right now.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Meet the guy? Letters? Come on, Gendry Waters…spill.”

He chuckled a little bit.  Yep, that’s Arya.  “Well. Ms. Stark,” he said, grinning, “apparently I might not be Gendry _Waters._  Some lawyer thinks my father, my real father, is this really rich guy in Europe, thinks I might inherit his business. Who _was_ in Europe...he died.  I took a DNA test and haven’t heard back yet.”

He laughed as her mouth gaped open and she reached out and punched him in the arm. _Hard._

“Shut up!! That is the most ridiculous thing ever.  Come on, really.”  She laughed.

“I’m serious! I told you it was unbelievable. Really, I don’t believe it myself. I thought it was just a scam and kept tearing  up the letters. Then he called me. Then he flew me out here and I met him yesterday; scraped a bit of my cheek to test.”

He stared at her, a little smile.

“That really is unbelievable. I’m..I don’t even know what to tell you. Um. Congratulations, maybe?”  Arya still had that open mouthed look of disbelief.

“Ha, I guess I’ll find out soon enough,” he smiled and sipped his coffee. Looked at her. He couldn’t stop his smile as his eyes. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was captivating, those great big eyes in that heart face.  Her lips were full and her chin was determined.

Her brow furrowed a bit. “So your dad - maybe - your dad is dead, then? I’m sorry.”

Gendry shrugged. “Never met him before, doesn’t really matter now. Honestly this whole thing seems like a pain in the ass. Things are good in Chicago.”

“You’re still in Chicago, then?” Arya asked. She was compelling, the more she spoke the more he wanted to hear her, hear the low drone of her voice, watch her face light up and accentuate every word that fell from her mouth…his hand moved closer to hers, fingertips separated by the smallest distance.

He nodded. “Yep. Still in Chicago, still working with Thoros. I have some artistic control now, I’m a partner. And...well, we’re actually doing really good. Busy. We have a show in San Francisco, at SF MOMA. That’s huge. Thoros is pulling his hair out.” He laughed; Arya _knew_ Thoros.

He straightened, watching her. “What about you, I take it you’re not in Chicago anymore?”

She smiled, and he could see a little sadness in it. “No, I’m not in Chicago, I’m not up at Winterfell, I’m actually living in upstate New York, an hour or so from here. I’m on my way home, actually, just wrapped up some work stuff.”

“So you’re not going to be here tonight to celebrate my new fabulous rich life, with a company to oversee, and dollar bills to roll around in?”   _Stay. Stay. I need normalcy. I want to unwrap you, relearn you. Stay._

She groaned. “Ugh. I think I celebrated - _or something_ \- enough last night to last me for a lifetime. I’ll never drink again.”

She looked down at her coffee.  “Besides, I should go.”

He looked at her, seriously. He wanted her to stay.  Wanted to see if the Arya that he met in front of him got along better with the Gendry that was in front of her.  They were different now, he had been so fond of her before. Wasn’t enough of a man for her before. He was pretty sure he was now...

His voice went a little soft. “Stay tonight, Arya. Please. Is someone waiting for you at home?”

He wasn’t prepared for the emotion that flashed over her face; a little sadness, a little confusion; it marred her features for a second and she recovered. “No, not right now.  But yes, in general.”

He looked down. A spiderweb thin silver band on her finger.   _Oh._

“You’re married?” He couldn’t mask his disappointment.  Running into Arya was like an unexpected gift. One that he couldn’t have.

“I am.” Her answer was short.

“Arya, are you happy?” He had to ask; she didn’t sound like a typical bubbling bride, ready to tell him all about her perfect husband. Was someone mistreating her? He felt himself rise a little, tense.

She smirked and repeated her line from earlier. “No, not right now. But yes, in general.”

He looked at her and cocked his head.  “Well, my offer still stands. If you feel like celebrating later - or not celebrating, depending on the news I get - call me up. You’re only an hour away. Easy. I’ll come to you, if I need to.”  He reached into his wallet and pulled a business card, dog-eared and marked with the dark fingerprints that seemed to make their way onto everything that he owned.

He stood up, grabbed his coffee and watched her pull to a stand; she still didn’t reach his chin but somehow she looked long, willowy.

She smiled again, he noticed that it didn’t reach her eyes, that she was staring at him. He reached down to give her a hug and pressed against her for a moment.  He didn’t mean to breath in her scent, he didn’t mean to bend down so far that his lips touched her shoulder, he didn’t mean to keep them there.

After a moment she shuddered, just slightly, a branch trembling in the breeze, and she pulled away.

“It’s so nice to see you,” she said, hesitating before she turned to walk up the sidewalk.

He watched her take a few steps. “Arya!” he called out to her, watching her stop and turn towards him, her eyes wide. “Arya, you’re so lovely now. Call me later.”

She smiled, a real one that made it to her eyes, and blushed a little.  He watched her walk away until she was engulfed by the people on the sidewalk and then shook his head, as if coming out of a dream.

 _From one dream to the next._  Off to see Tyrion.

  


\---

 

Sansa felt hollow when she got off the plane; rotely she directed the cab to her flat, thinking for a moment that she had promised Petyr she’d come over straightaway and then shrugging it off.

She needed to think.

She didn’t want any of this. Didn’t want to fall out of love with Willas, didn’t want to fall into something, god, something else, with Petyr, didn’t want to upset the balance of her life, couldn’t stop herself from taking everything she had and knew by the roots and pulling it out.

_Couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop._

She showered, to wash the plane off of her; pulled herself together and opened her computer.  Some work, to take away the edge of guilt, some work to take some of the sting of her dishonesty away.

She was deep in a spreadsheet that she wasn’t looking at, deep in numbers that she could not concentrate on, deep in a black hole that swallowed her being.

And then there was a knock on the door. Hard. _One, two._

Sansa closed her laptop and walked to the door.

He was there.

She opened the door and he walked in, a little distant, head to one side and he regarded her with those grey green eyes; she saw the twitch of his mouth, saw him keep himself together.

She realized she was barely dressed, a blush colored silk robe, barely darker than her skin.

“Sansa. Darling. I thought you’d be headed to see me when you got off the plane. Why are you here?” It wasn’t a threat in his voice, it wasn’t an admonition...but his voice edged close to it.

She pulled a smile, put up a wall, weakly. “Petyr. I am..exhausted. Come in.”

She walked ahead of him into the house, but before she made it all the way out of the foyer she felt his hand on her, pulling the thin silk; she felt the air move across her abdomen as the robe opened.

She turned to him and narrowed her eyes, the smile fell away. “Why are you here?”

 

_Was it not enough that he had invaded her senses, invaded her thoughts, broken through her every single ounce of propriety, of delicacy?  She was exhausted, the need, the want had taken everything from her and now he stood in front of her..._

He still clutched the edge of the silk and looked over what he had exposed.  A cruel smile played over his lips.

“Because you’re mine, Sansa. Because you just spent the last few days pretending to be his. But you know the truth.”  He moved in closer to her and leaned in for a kiss; she expected to feel the softness of his lips but instead his teeth glanced off her lip and he moved down her neck and stood there, breathing her in.

Her whole body responded. She felt her nipples stiffen and push up against his shirt, felt herself flush and spread through her whole body, a warmth roll through her like a wave on a beach.

She pulled his chin up and kissed him, controlling the timing, the tempo.

She might not be in control of _anything_ around her right now.  But she could control him. She kept her mouth just a heartbeat away from his lips.

“Petyr. I will come to you when I’m ready. Not before, not afterwards. Do you understand that?”  She allowed the steel to come into her voice, something she rarely used; it sounded like a foreign language rolling off her tongue, someone else’s voice.

_No. Hers._

She turned and walked into the living room and pointed to the ground.

He fucking had invaded her, he had come in and changed her, and now he’d fucking pay.

“Get... _down_.”  Her voice quavered but that steel was still there.

 

There was a brightness to his eyes, a willingness to obey, a quickness to his movements even though he tried to cover it. _No, Petyr, I see right through you._

She motioned to his pants. “Off.”

She was furious, at herself, at her own inability to stop herself from feeling all of this, at the dangerous place she had put herself, at Margaery seeing right through her, at the sick feeling that she was about to throw everything away. And that she wanted to.

And it was _his_ fault, his, for triggering something that she didn’t even know she had in her, unlocking a Pandora’s box that she couldn’t put back, black and red ghosts fingering her, whispering to her, compelling her forward.

_It was his fault._

He was on his back and she looked at his cock, risen, towards her, the thatch of dark her serving as a contrast to it.

She sank down on him and he filled her.

_Why did it feel so fucking good to be bad?_

She started to move and saw his fingers move towards her hips; _no._

She smacked them aside. “You don’t touch me.”

Some strange look over his face, amusement. She felt her anger rise, even as she took him in, as she rode him, watching his hands stretch out on the ground, fists balling.  The amusement rattled her further and she slid up and down on him and then sank completely, feeling her mouth curve as his eyes rolled back.

“Sansaaaa….”

No.

No. “You don’t say _anything,_ Petyr.”  She rose and fell on him, tipping herself forward to rest her weight on her hands, her hands on his mouth, steadying herself as she felt him angle into her in such a way...such a way...there...she started to move more quickly and couldn’t keep herself leaning forward, couldn’t feel his breath on her palms.

She bent back, moving with a ferocity that surprised her, pushing him more deeply into her, pushing him all the way. _I’m not yours, you are mine..._

She clenched onto his hips and dug her nails in, feeling him buck underneath her, his own movement unexpected, dipping into her further.  And when she saw the greed on his face she raised herself up and he popped out of her, a wet sound, the sudden lack making his eyes fly open.

_That’s right._

She hovered over him with greedy hands for herself, touching herself to stoke what he had started, staying just out of his reach, swatting his hands away as he tried to pull her down on him. And as she was almost there, letting fury move into passion she sunk back down and ground on him, clenched him, the orgasm that much stronger from her anger.

She softened, then, softened and looked at him more gently, once she could open her eyes, once all of it had drained out of her, and she reached down and kissed him.

“I thought of you the whole time I was in Georgia.  Thought of you at Olenna Tyrell’s grave.  Petyr, why am I willing to throw all of this away, for you?”

His arms circled around her, his shirt still on - she hadn’t given him the chance to get it off.  The room was bright, the living room formal and a silent witness to her madness, end tables and tchotkes and lamps and normalcy, and she felt herself start to cry.  

He reached for her and crushed against her with kisses that she did not fight off, kisses that she sunk into.

“Oh Sansa. My sweetling. You’re not throwing anything away.  Not at all. You stand only to gain, darling, you’ll only come out the winner.”

  
  



	13. Washington DC, Moscow, Singapore, Ontonagon Township, MI

It’s seven in the morning in Washington D.C.  The most powerful man in America is fuming. His latest executive order has been challenged again in the court. This won’t stop its implementation.  It will just make it more difficult.  The movement to find and silence dissidents will not cease, not now.

The dissidents are making it much, much harder for him to establish what will end up being several billions of dollars of revenue that will go directly into his own coffers. The calculation of some tremendous men, captains of industry, say it will be outrageous, like nothing they’ve ever seen. The dissidents have no idea. Traitors.  

The President is not powerless against either court nor man. He’s got his. Mostly underground, carried out by a shadow branch of homeland security led by a group of men whose primary allegiance is only to the President, personally. They are vicious and occasionally need to be called back to heel, like an overprotective guard dog, willing to rip the thief and the postman to shreds equally. New York City was a problem, the other day. Disaster. They’ll work at night from here on out.

The President is unbothered by bloodshed, but apoplectic from the steady drip of negative press. It’s diminished somewhat, now - he’s got his own press embedded, anyhow, and has managed to jail the most strident of contradictory voices that used to dog him.

The remaining press is still problematic. For every one bad story that his people veil, two more pop up. He has to catch himself from reacting, now, when he sees the unfair press. His fingers twitch as he reaches for his phone and then he pulls away.  His closest aide nods with relief: the presidential staff won’t have another mess to clean up from the stream of consciousness the president liked to broadcast out on social media. They’ve already cleaned out the leakers in the Oval office. Some unfortunate accidents. Shame.

The President grunts and puts his phone down. It was much harder, he’d admit, when he didn’t control himself. Harder to get things done. Much easier to just act in darkness. He’d tell the world how little he thought of them when his term was done.

\--  


It’s two p.m. outside of Moscow.  The most powerful man in Russia is in his element; he’s on horseback, and charging through the woods. This horse is his favorite; a big, brawny stallion, interbred with the delicate, hot-blooded Arabians and sturdy Russian stock.  A gift from the Ayatollah, symbolizing a long union of trade. The stallion has speed, but can ride over rough terrain all day.

Would that he could. The Russian president would stay out all day. There was a river, ahead, and he’d rather go there, be alone, but it will be time to go meet some of his loyalists. He’d let them gather, and he’d ride up on them, sweaty, while they waited. Let them see how a real leader handled both beast and man. He would have preferred to make them ride with him, see what kind of men they were. His most loyal oligarchs are old, too old for that. They’d rather sit around and talk over the great table in the hall of his manor.

The American, too, was fat and old.  The ease in which the Americans had offered to open trade in the past few years was astonishing.

All of them gathered, all of them ready...all of them old, save the one.

The young one hadn’t even bothered to come. The white one, the silver one. The president of Russia found himself increasingly angered by the white one’s actions. He was still producing; he was still bringing substantial wealth...but rumors crept that he was planning on going off the rails.

These afternoons outside of Moscow were expectations, _not_ invitations.

He made a mental note to have his team check in with the embed in Cyprus.  They’d sent the red woman to test him, to see if they could find out if his loyalty had shifted.  

The white one was supposed to have funded a hacking operation in Belarus. Not Cyprus. He received the money to start it, but the president hadn’t seen anything come of it yet. A pity, but only one operation in hundreds. A test to see how the Targaryen would do. He looked like he might be failing.  

Tragic.  The Targaryen family was known in the motherland. It would be a shame if that last light had to be extinguished.

  
  
  
\--

It’s midnight in Singapore.  The spider sat awake in his apartment.

He wasn’t sleeping; it didn’t matter, he barely slept.

He didn’t need to. He usually worked best in the dark, anyhow.

A great power, a leader would whisper in Varys’ ear. And he would whisper back. If they paid the price - he’d send out his little birds to listen. He’d thread together the little songs he’d get back, would sing for him.  Then he’d give his assassins the names. They'd swiftly, efficiently deal a death that would become mercy.

Mercy not for the dead, of course. Mercy for the living. After all, Varys usually only arranged a killing for the greater good. Trafficking, at first. Terrorism, later.  And for a high enough price.

 

He was up waiting for a report, for a sign, for something to come from Cyprus. He had sent a man there - not to kill, but to charm - and to dangle some tempting bait in front of his target.  Bait that could be worth billions - a pipeline in Turkmenistan.

He didn’t know yet whether the target was a scourge or a savior.

Buying the pipeline would be a sign that Aegon was not loyal to Russia, that he was ready to break free, to take his own oil wealth. And possibly be the first domino to tip that would allow Aegon to take down the impenetrable, corrupt Russian presidency.

Of course there was no pipeline.  The identity that Jaqen H’ghar had been given was completely falsified.  Created with enough backstory, with bank accounts and passports and dummy companies enough to be convincing. But if Aegon could be swayed, he had enough power in Russia already to start the ball rolling and it would change the entire geopolitical stranglehold of corruption, fingers entangled in the Middle East, the Far East and in America.  

The Targaryen name could be useful. It was imprinted into the collected psyche of the Russian people. If he moved, he could start a revolution.

If Aegon demurred on the pipeline, it would be clear enough that he was not ready to leave the oligarchy, not ready yet to break free.

It was a simple test, to see if Aegon Targaryen would live or die. Because if Aegon picked wrong, if he picked Russia, he’d die at the hand of one of Varys’ assassins. Simple. He had too much power, and he needed to be picked off.  That was the price that was paid, that was the debt that was owed.

  


Picking off oligarchs one by one was a treacherous job - with a high price. Varys needed good men.

Hopefully Jaqen would be back in the game, not just to _charm_ , but to accept another mission.  His honeymoon had gone on long enough.  He was needed. He had many gifts. Varys needed to break from Arya Stark, and fast.

  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  


Ygritte knew this land, and Jon moved behind her silently, listening for the whine and clicking of the drones that would ebb and swell over the quiet forest and then disappear.

She led him to dark opening, the maw of the cave obscured from view by a stand of scrubby brush.  Jon ducked down and followed her sound; he could see nothing, only feel the limestone walls with his fingertips as he walked behind her.

The air changed and became less pressing and Ygritte pulled out a lighter and flicked it on.  The light didn’t travel very far; it lit up her skin and he saw her straighten and stand. Her face played into a smile, flickering with the tiny flame.

“Ah, here we are. Stay still, Jon Stark - I’ll be right back.”  And before he could speak again the light flicked off, his eyes useless in the dark and her footsteps went back the way they came.

In the dark Jon could only obey her, only stand and listen to a dripping of water, only smell the earth and mineral limestone walls.  He moved slowly, hesitantly, trying to find the confines of the chamber, reaching a small pool and turning back.

She returned, the footsteps growing louder and he heard a clatter as she set something down, the hollow thunk of something on the stone floor and the movements of her hands, and then a fire from the lighter, catching on some twigs she had pulled, and as it grew the light flickered more strongly and illuminated her and beyond her the walls of a massive cave, reaching twenty feet high, a small pool in the corner.

Ygritte grinned once the fire had taken and a few medium sized branches had caught.

“It’s bigger than my apartment. And they’ll never find it. No exit for the smoke above the ground. Jon, look, thought you’d feel at home - it’s like being in the great hall of Winterfell.”  She smirked and sat crosslegged in front of it.

He grinned and felt the tenseness of their day fade with her humor. “You’ve been here?”

She nodded. “Caves all over here, explored all of em when I was a kid. There’s a bigger cavern up ahead, a few tunnels that lead out to other caverns. But none of them have this nice little swimming pool, for you.” Again she grinned, her face in that devious, mocking look that drove him a little mad all the time. “And no bears. Maybe some bats, is all.”

“Did your dad use a cave that he found to make his bunker, or did he blast it out?” Jon had only met Ygritte’s father a few times - a man that looked like he’d rather Jon stay away from  his beloved daughter, a man that looked like he could gut Jon from stem to head in one movement.

“Little of both. There was a cave, and then he blasted a bit out, and then dug it further. Put a couch and a tv in there and now you can’t drag him out.” Ygritte’s eyes widened, as if daring Jon to challenge her. “No, really - a tv! You know my da’s got solar panels all over up there.”

Jon laughed and moved towards her.  Something about that voice, even as she needled him, he could never stop himself. “Yeah, I’m sure those solar panels work great in December….”  He slid a hand under her shirt, her skin cool like the cave around them but impossibly soft.

She moved, her body instinctively curving to allow his hand to travel more easily up to her breasts, and shrugged out of the shirt that was covering them.  “Oh, so fancy, need the TV all year long…” she laughed, at herself and at him.

Within a moment she was naked in front of him.  That pale skin, her legs skinny and covered in scratches, the untamed red tangle of her mound, the skinny, long, almost boyish shape of her.  Her breasts were small and high. He felt himself surge.

“Why are you still dressed?” She knelt over and he watched the white of her body, the line of her back and arm become one long graceful thing as she put another branch onto the fire and then moved toward him.

She straddled his lap and suddenly the clothes became too much; she was naked on him and he moved to take his shirt off, to press against her skin, and then stood up with her legs wrapped around him and stepped out of his pants.  She was a feather, she was weightless, and then the coolness of her contrasted with the heat of his own skin and he held her, his erection jutting up and bumping against the cleft of her ass.

He wanted to fuck her, but oh he wanted to touch her first, eat her all the way up, start at her fingertips and lick her completely until he made it to the sweet brine of her core. He moved to a flat part of the rock and sank to his knees, tenderly laying her out in front of him and moved his head down to her feet.  He sucked at the bony ankle, nibbling up the flesh of her calf and licked the tender spot behind her knee.

Her fingers moved into his hair and he felt her movements become impatient but still he dined; his tongue moved up inside her thigh and then traveled quickly to the center of her, kissing her and then denying her, moving up to the flat of her stomach and finding a nipple to roll in his lips.

Her breathing was uneven. So much better. He knew her body, knew what that meant, knew that when his head would move back down again that the slickness would guide his tongue, that the fruit was ripe and ready to be eaten.

And so he feasted. His tongue searched her valleys, seeking the small bud that made her tremble, her legs jerking as he covered it completely and sucked and then released to lap from her again.

Delicious. He could keep his mouth there all day, the taste of her, the feeling of his cock bumping against the cold rock when he dipped down, his hand moving to stroke himself, keeping the pressure on her clit and feeling her unravel beneath him.

The only time he could tame her.  He felt her come under him, tasted the wash of her crest and then pulled his eyes up to watch her face ride through her pleasure, redoubling the movements of his hand, stroking himself furiously and watching outside of his body as his cock spurted seed, milky on her white skin, pooling in her navel, as his own voice echoed in a triumphant snarl against the limestone walls.

She was still panting as he lay down on top of her, the stickiness of himself slicking his belly, her mouth soft and compliant as he kissed her, gave her a taste of the heaven he’d just indulged in.

After a moment he felt her breath slow, and a little voice came from her, no teasing, no joking, just a wistful little voice, another facet of this woman that he loved.

“Jon. Let’s never leave. I don’t ever want to leave this cave. Let’s not go back.”

He couldn’t answer her, couldn’t tell her why they’d ever have to leave, to pick their way down the hills, to hide from whatever was lurking in the sky.

And then he didn’t have to, her mouth was upon his, and as he kissed her time stood still, and sound disappeared, thought disappeared and his wild Ygritte took him over and over again on the hard limestone floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, little hiatus, busy lately. here you go, some exposition and cave smut.
> 
> thanks for your feedback!


	14. silver and gray and white and violet

Gendry allowed himself to feel nervous, just for a second. 

After all, this was some life-changing shit he was about to walk into.  Or the biggest, most stupid scam of his life. 

The receptionist that had turned him down the other day led him to Tyrion’s office.  She turned and looked at him; her hand paused right before she knocked.  Her eyes looked him up and down with a new interest.

“Did you find something to do the other night?” She had a hint of suggestiveness on her face; Gendry briefly wondered if she knew something about the results of the DNA test he had taken. 

_ I don’t have time for this bullshit.  _

He didn’t say anything to her and lifted his eyebrows at the door.  Besides, his mind was lingering on some sad gray eyes, a sharp chin...

_ One dream to the next.  _

He entered the room and Tyrion awkwardly moved off his chair to come shake his hand.  

“Well, I must apologize for the delay. I got the results, and decided to test again, just to be sure.” Again the voice of the dwarf seemed oddly rich and deep for his size.  Tyrion looked up at Gendry.

Gendry felt awkward. Was he supposed to ask for the results? What the fuck was actually happening? 

“Ah, standing there with your mouth open. You know, you’d look more like your father if you had a piece of cake in that mouth.  Yes, Gendry, you are a Baratheon.  As certified by not one, not two, but three labs here in New York.”

Tyrion gave a wry smile. “Congratulations. Welcome to the family. Well, not my family, but the Baratheon family.”

Gendry was...shell shocked. 

He had thought about what it would mean if this all came true while he was walking around in New York, what it would feel like when he got the results. He had no way of processing this.

Fuck, his checking account never got over a few grand, and that was after he and Thoros would get paid. 

His first inclination, strangely, was to walk out of the office and back in time to the self that did not know this, to the self that would go back to normal. 

He swallowed and realized that Tyrion was waiting for him to speak. 

“So, what does this mean?”   _ What does this mean. What does it mean to find out that you’re rich, what does this mean to know that you’re walking into a business, what does it mean to find out that you have another family that exists.  _

He cleared his throat. 

Tyrion’s smile was not unkind. “Well, it means whatever you want it to mean, honestly. There is a corporation that is now yours.  A multinational corporation that has at times done everything from fund mining operations, to handle infrastructure in countries knocked down by war, to funding and arming terrorists and turning poppies into heroin and trafficking it across the world.”

_ This is where the scam comes in.   _ Gendry put his hands up in the air. “Hey, if that’s what you want me to do, you’ve got the wrong guy.”   _ Fucking hell. Heroin? Time to get the fuck out... _

Tyrion laughed again. “No, no. That’s what it  _ has _ been. And that’s why I looked for you.  My sister was a big enough monster.  Responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people, thousands, even. May her soul rest in...well, assuming she had a soul, which was questionable - her soul is probably rotting in the seven hells.”

Tyrion’s voice grew sad. “Her son, though, her son is even more disgusting. He’s just sick enough to outdo his mother. I have some grave concerns about what he’d like to do with the power that he’s just starting to exercise. I could not, in good conscience, allow him to continue. Not when I knew that he wasn’t the actual heir, not when I knew that there was likely at least one other descendant of old Robert Baratheon running around.”

This...this was too much to process.  Gendry’s mouth was dry.   _ I know nothing about any of this, I don’t know how to be this person… _

He spoke. “Does the son know...about me?”

This time Tyrion’s laugh was a short bark, gallows humor.  “Joffrey? Joffrey doesn’t know a thing.  Joffrey is probably figuring out how he can make money torturing people right now.  You think I’m joking….oh no, Gendry...Joffrey doesn’t  know anything.  And until you know what you’d like to do, it’s probably best that it stays that way.  At least until you have a plan.”

“Tyrion. I don’t have a plan. I’m not a business person. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know Baratheon anything. I don’t have money.”  Gendry sighed. 

“Oh, you can sell the whole thing if you’d like.  Donate it to little starving orphans.  You don’t have to know anything about anything.”  Tyrion walked over to his desk and pulled out some paperwork and an envelope. “The whole point is, you also don’t naturally want to make people suffer in horrible ways just to make some extra money.  That is the whole reason that you’re here. I knew  _ anyone _ had to be more scrupulous than Joffrey. Enough people have already suffered by the hands of my family.”

He pushed the paperwork and a pen over to Gendry.  “And a Lannister always pays their debts.  This is the one way to try to make sure that my family name doesn’t fuck up the world any further.  Staunch the bleeding, so to speak.”

He nodded at Gendry.  “Go ahead, start signing. No one will know about this little secret until you feel like you’re ready to move ahead.  But do think about it, Gendry - I’ll send you the beginner’s version of what your company entails, some suggestions on how to turn it away from any nefarious dealings.”

He gestured to the envelope.  Gendry opened it.  There must have been thousands of dollars in crisp hundreds, a credit card, a car key with the Mercedes logo embossed on it.

“It’s a lot to think about. You might as well be comfortable while you’re doing the thinking.  Besides, thinking about how to spend a lot of money while you drive a really fast sportscar back to Chicago, well, that sounds like a  _ splendid _ way to get some uninterrupted time to consider your next move.”

Gendry felt himself start to smile, a little bit, as the reality of what Tyrion had told him sunk in. 

_ A splendid way to consider his next move, indeed.  _

  
  


\--

 

The drive home from New York City had felt like a dream, through the haze of the hangover, the scattered thoughts of her week.  She looked down at the speedometer and saw she was edging 100 and slowed down as the roads became smaller and smaller, shadows of trees on either side dappling the gray asphalt.  She needed to be home, she needed to be with Jaqen, hope that the walls that he had spent so much time thinking about would give her some kind of clue as to why she hadn’t heard from him.

Gendry had given her pause.  Some solidity emanated from him; a very cut and dry presence, especially contrasted with Jaqen’s fluid nature, his enigmatic way of being.  She hadn’t even thought of him in years; an attempt at dating ages ago, the remembrance of him tainted by a bitterness that she had felt, his clinginess to her.

And now she was fucking clinging to Jaqen, texting him like some schoolgirl over and over, sitting with her phone next to her drink even while she talked about everything and anything else with Lyanna. 

And he wasn’t even fucking there. 

_ Wonder if he has that same feeling, that same distaste at how insecure she’s being, the same way she had felt about Gendry all those years ago. _

Her hands tightened on the wheel. The security system buzzed and the house emerged from the woods, glass front sparkling, the river visible behind the house as she drove in.  The river.  She’d get in the water...she could always think better once she had let the water flow over her, wash out the extra tension that she felt.

Floating in the little pool that the river gave her was not the same as being weightless in the great expanse of Lake Superior, and the house was not the same comfort as Winterfell, but it would have to do. 

Once she got in the house sprawled her things across the wooden floor and stripped down to go out to the river.  It was still hot, Indian summer in New York, and a humidity made the air cling to her, little rivulets of sweat beading down her back.  She walked down to the river naked and dove from the flat rock into the little pool.

She let the water wash over her, swimming underwater for a bit, feeling the satisfying tension of the water against her arms and legs, opening her eyes to marvel for a moment at the silvery flash of minnows that she had interrupted.  And then she surfaced and let her body go slack, tried to let herself float with arms and legs outstretched like a starfish.

The current of the river didn’t allow for that, much; she found herself bumping towards the shallows and pushed back towards the deep part of the river and extended herself again.

No rest. She needed just to think, and float, and the river kept pushing her - pushing her into thinking, into movement.  Very well.  She extended her arms and swam up the river, pushing herself, yielding all thought to the action of dipping her hands into the water and rhythmically kicking, up and down, until she felt herself tire and the movement burn off the tension in her limbs, the water cleanse the dirty feeling of the hangover.

Enough.

 

She emerged and sunned on the rock and once she was dry enough to go back in she clambered, damp, into the house, pulling her phone out and sprawling down on the ornate Persian rug, vibrant and ornate amongst the modern glass and wood lines of the house. 

She looked at the messages.  Nothing. 

She tapped out a note to Jaqen.

 

_ You’ve disappeared. You’re not getting back to me. Don’t make me worry about you.  _

 

She sighed, and dialed again. Sansa. She hadn’t been able to get a hold of Sansa, lately, either.  She’d gotten a clipped text from her - Willas’ grandmother had died - but that was the size of it.  Sansa had been so strange lately.

No answer. 

Jon, then.  Arya felt driven to talk to someone. She listened to the dial tone go straight to voicemail. Jon must be out of range. Nothing. 

Arya flipped on her back, feeling the damp of the river on her skin start to dry in the heat.  She dialed again.  Varys. 

 

“Arya Stark.”

_ Of course he was the one that answered. _

“Varys. Well, I’m alone now, and I’m not drunk. So do you mind letting me know exactly what you mean about Jaqen charming someone?”

Varys gave a little giggle. Arya still couldn’t tell what that meant with him - whether it was subterfuge and prelude to him telling her terrible news, or whether he actually found what he was about to say to be humorous.  

“Well, Arya Stark, we needed Jaqen.  We’re dealing with a Russian that we think might be very dangerous.  But our benefactor also thinks he might be able to be swayed, that he might not be absolutely loyal to the Russian president. As you know, that loyalty is incredibly important right now.”

Arya nodded silently. The US had entwined with Russia, and none of it was good. “But what does Jaqen need to do?”

“Your husband can be...quite convincing, can he not? Our target apparently has a soft spot for men like Jaqen.  I need Jaqen to...tease some information out of him, to see if our benefactor wants to keep him alive, or enlist us to...handle him.”

Arya couldn’t speak.  She gripped the phone.  Why wouldn’t he have told her this?

“You do realize that Jaqen can be quite persuasive, no? I mean…” Varys gave another giggle. “He convinced you, after all.”

Arya felt a chill down her spine.  “Varys, where is he.  I want to see him. This is ridiculous.”

“I can’t let you do that, Arya. You can’t interrupt this mission.” Varys’ tone became firm. 

“What do you mean, “let” me? Varys, send me plane tickets, now. I’m going out there.  And I can either do it my way or do it your way.”

Varys gave a sigh, slightly embellished, Arya thought; she could imagine his face as he did it, the strange, unlined softness of it wearing an expression of feigned weariness.  Fucking Varys. Their boss, their nemesis, their benefactor.  Jaqen had made millions working under Varys. 

“Arya Stark. I will send you a new passport. Traveling is difficult these days. And I’ll let you know where Jaqen will be. You must promise me, though, you can not interrupt his work. See him, let him know that you’re there, and then you have to watch from afar. Will that make you feel...better?”

Arya nodded and then realized that Varys couldn’t see anything.  Her voice betrayed her, tears starting to seep into it. “Yes. Send it over.”

Varys was smiling, she could hear it in his tone.  “Two days, Arya Stark, and then you’ll get to see your lover in action.”

“My husband, Varys.”

That fucking giggle.  Again. 

“Of course, Arya.”

He hung up. 

 

\--

 

She was going to spy on Jaqen. She was going to watch him. Part of her couldn’t wait to see him, and part of her felt like an animal, wary, unsure of what she’d see. 

She looked at her phone again and stood up to grab her bag, digging in the bottom of it until her fingers felt a dogeared card. 

She dialed. 

“Gendry? Drive up here, come tell me if you’re a zillionaire.”

  
  


\--

 

Jaqen looked over his files.  Aegon Targaryen was nuanced, layered, strange. 

Jaqen didn’t quite know what to think of him.  He couldn’t get an absolute read on him.

He did see that Aegon’s eyes had lingered on him, briefly.  He did light up when they spoke of the pipeline, although Jaqen noticed that Aegon was careful not to talk too much in front of Melisandre. 

And Melisandre, that red woman...she sat fuming, caught by surprise, unsure of her place with him.  A man could see. She wore her assuredness like a mask, but he’d caught her without it a few times.  She was not a constant with Aegon.  

Jaqen had sent for more information on her, and was able to pull up nothing. As if she didn’t exist. 

Exactly what one would find, if say, they were searching for himself. 

His thoughts flicked back to Aegon. And the task at hand. Jaqen had not….been...with a man; only briefly and again to gather information.  He let himself think for a moment, wondered what he’d have to pull from himself to muster a convincing face.

He thought about Aegon’s form, the length of him, his long arms, the strange glow of his skin, the slight cruelty of his mouth.

It could be worse.  He was attractive, almost otherworldly.

Jaqen meditated for a moment.  He found himself almost aroused. Just so. This is a job. Jaqen would do his job - no, Anton would do his job. Jaqen was nothing, Jaqen was not here. 

His phone buzzed and Jaqen picked it up quickly to see if it was Aegon with the time of their meeting tomorrow. 

He winced as he looked at the words on the screen.  Oh, his lovely girl. He hadn’t returned her texts, hadn’t called in a few days.  As he dove deeper into this job, he felt guilt, guilt towards his bride, guilt for the sin of omission.  

The guilt sank into his belly, sank down into his core and he sat with the phone in his hands, looking at her increasingly urgent string of texts.  Oh Arya. Forgive me, you will forgive a man when this is all finished.  But now…

He could not call her from a place of guilt.  _ Best to finish this, and quickly, and get back to his bride.  _

As he lay down that night a strange sequence of images floated in his mind, keeping him awake, moving him between guilt and arousal. 

Violet eyes, gray eyes, flashing at him; luminescent skin stretched over long masculine arms; luminescent skin curved under firm ripe breasts.

Jaqen reached for himself and as he ran his fingers under his cock he let the eyes blur together, let himself consider them both, two mouths in his mind, two sets of fingers moving in place of his own hand on himself.  

Panting, his hand sticky with his own seed, he tried to banish the images from his head and could not, and fell into an uneasy sleep colored silver and grey and white and violet. 


	15. transmission

 

 

The guilt only smudged the edges of Sansa’s last few bright days.

Petyr had stayed at her apartment, the day that he came over, stayed in her apartment.  She’d led him into her bedroom once she was able to pull herself together off the floor, kept him in there, pulled him into the shower with her and marveled as she soaped him, the skin so different, the dark coarse hairs on his chest capturing little soap bubbles and tickling her as she pressed up against him.

The maid wasn’t due to come today, Willas was still in Georgia, and Sansa thrilled at the wickedness of being taken by her lover in her own bed, lounging with Petyr as he stroked the edges of her hair, damp.

He had used the soap that Willas used, but it smelled different against his skin. He kept his fingers on her shoulders like Willas did, but even his fingertips felt harsher, more insistent. 

She marveled at the naked emotion that she would hear in his voice, the tenderness when he spoke to her, the contrast with the calculating that would happen as he spoke of anything else.  They talked about ‘after’, although after what storm Sansa could not imagine.  After this, we’ll go to Zurich, we’ll get a flat.  After this, we’ll spend a winter in Rio and walk on the sand.  After this, darling, the world is ours, you just tell me where you’d like to go and I’ll pluck it from impossibility and wrap it up for you.

Sansa never asked about what happened right before the ‘ _ after _ ’.  It was like jumping off a cliff.  She didn’t want to go too close to the edge and see the chasm, even though just beyond the chasm lie her freedom. 

So she spent the time thinking about the  _ after _ , and let her body explore the _ before,  _ feeling herself awaken in every cell in a way she had never known possible. 

 

Sansa slept against him in her own bed, waking up a few times in the night, panicking that Willas would come home, soothing herself down by reciting the words that he had sent to her earlier that day, that he would be home in two days.

She still had two more days home alone.

The next morning she stood in her kitchen; she really did have to get out that day, and resuming her normal daily activities after becoming someone else for the past few days felt good. Better, at least.  

She hummed as she tended to a pan of eggs.

Petyr appeared behind her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. 

“Sweetling.”

“Mmmm?”  Sansa smiled and turned to him.

“You are incredibly gorgeous right now.”  Petyr let the little dip of his smile curve down in appreciation.

She poked at him with the hand not holding the spatula. “You’re just trying to get lucky.”

Petyr grinned and his eyes looked up at her with something sweet, something fierce. 

 

“I’m already lucky, sweetling.”

 

They had breakfast and then Petyr had to get ready to leave, giving Sansa some room to get ready on her own, to clear the room of any evidence of her lover, to give her head some space to assume the role of wife when Willas came back.    

His smile never left his face, and he ducked his head down while he fiddled with his cufflinks, and looked up at her again with that same smile, knowing, suggestive. 

Petyr always looked like he had a secret, like he was always keeping something back.  

And then another smile moved over her face.  She was the secret, now. 

And so Sansa decided to figure out how to handle the exact moment when she would tell Willas, that dangerous moment between  _ before  _ and  _ after _ .

 

\--

 

 

 

Arya couldn’t believe that she had reached out to Gendry.  She rolled off the rug and moved into the shower, to wash the river off of her, cleanse herself.

Gendry. It was strange how steady he seemed, how he had grown from a boy to someone more self assured.  He was...himself.  He was taller than Jaqen, broader, wider.  Jaqen always had a smirk buried right under the surface, a little joke that he’d share with only her.  Gendry was all on the surface. 

She wanted some fucking normalcy.  Jaqen’s silence was shocking, terrifying. She knew he wasn’t dead, or in danger, because fucking Varys would have told her.  At the least he would have done that.   _ At the least.  _

_Some fucking normalcy. What was that, exactly._ Arya didn’t even know - she was married to a man who could not have his name on the public record, who had killed people in every corner of the earth. 

She moved into her bedroom to get dressed.  She wouldn’t dress up, stupid, stupid.  But she noticed that there was a little shiver in her movements, from anticipation or rebellion, she didn’t know. She didn’t care.  She pulled a grey tee shirt out of the drawer, her favorite, the softest.  She reached for into another drawer and then pulled her hand back. 

No bra. She didn’t need one. She slipped the tee shirt over her head, pulled some underwear on and grabbed some shorts.  She pulled her hair back in a pony tail.

She grabbed a pack of cigarettes and sat out on the deck to wait for Gendry to drive up, lighting one and keeping her phone at her side to disarm the security system when he did. 

 It was a mercy that it didn’t take very long. Arya’s bravado had started to wear off but before it could disappear completely the security system app on her phone gave a short buzz and she allowed Gendry entry onto the property, then watched the driveway as a small, new sportscar drove up and parked in front of the house, visible through the open plan even to her at the very back.

 She walked around the outside of the house and up to his car and gave a low whistle at the car. 

“So, I guess you’re not a zillionaire, this is just how you roll normally, right?”  Arya laughed. 

Gendry’s grin was huge as he stepped out of the car.  “And I take it you’re not a zillionaire either?” he laughed and gestured to the house.  “This is pretty fucking nice, Arya.”

Arya looked at the house with fresh eyes.  Slung long and low in the woods, metal and glass and wood, modern.  She ducked her head down from the sight of it: Jaqen’s creation. 

“I guess you could say I’ve done okay.  Come in. Tell me what the fuck happened.”

Gendry walked to the trunk of the car and pulled out a twelve pack.  Arya laughed. Coors Light.  _ Fucking Gendry.  _

“You’re gonna need a beer for this, Arya.”

 

She led him through the house and gave him a little tour, watching his eyes get big as he looked at the rooms, the one main great room managing to be impossibly modern and huge but human and comfortable as well, decorated sparsely with every piece meaning something to her.

She wondered what it looked like through his eyes, a collection of tschotkes that someone would put up if they tried to make their house look bohemian.  Each thing had some meaning; the fabric that Jaqen had bartered for in Morocco; a great chair, carved that Arya had coveted in Thailand that Jaqen had shipped back to the house.   Each thing a chapter of her life. 

She supposed it looked like nothing but furniture to Gendry and put the thought out of her mind. 

“Fuck, Arya, this is really nice. Um. I know your family had money, but…?” Gendry’s tone was hushed. 

“We’ve made some money as well.” Arya didn’t know how to talk about Jaqen and her own profession.  How do you tell your ex-boyfriend that your husband used to be a hired assassin of global importance?  And that you had participated by killing one of the most wealthy women in Europe with your own hand?

 

_ You didn’t, you just didn’t say anything.  _

 

Gendry didn’t push, although she could see a million questions in his mind. He handed her a beer and she moved all the way through the house to the back porch again.  Once they settled she opened it, took a drink  and looked at him expectantly. “Okay. Tell me, tell me everything.  What the fuck is going on.  By the looks of the car it seems that...well, just tell me.”

Gendry reddened, a little bit. “Guess I’ll have to figure out how to tell this story soon enough.  Well, I told you about the letters, and the DNA test, right?”

Arya nodded.  She watched as his hand covered the beer can, the great big hand with dark hairs sprinkled over his fingers, his forearms scarred and tanned.  

“So, Arya, apparently it’s all true.  My actual father had a family, but apparently his children weren’t actually his. My father left the company to ‘his true born heir’, and his wife cheated on him. The wife died, and the son took over the company. The lawyer Tyrion said that he couldn’t stand to see the son have so much power, with the company, knowing that the son wasn’t really his, knowing that the son would just do horrible things with it.  I mean, Arya, he was talking about human trafficking, drug trade, arming terrorists.  Like, the worst that you can imagine. The company has done some seriously awful shit, apparently, and Tyrion wanted to get that much money out of the son’s hands so that it wouldn’t do any more.  Said something about absolving his family name, that his family had done enough damage.”

Tyrion? Arya knew that name. 

“So. I guess he took a few years after the death of my father to track down other possible children.  Found me.  Took my DNA and tested it.  And...now, I’m the rightful heir to this massive amount of money, and a company that needs to be untangled from some really creepy work….and….”

 

Arya’s gaze had sharpened.  She knew that name. Tyrion was Tyrion Lannister. It had to be.   

  

She interrupted.  “Tell me about Tyrion.”

Gendry laughed.  “Well. He’s a dwarf, first of all.  Didn’t know that until I walked into his office.  He seems...well, he seems like a good guy.  I’m sure something will come out, but when I asked him about the family business, thinking he’d want a piece of it, he told me to sell it and donate the money if I wanted to.  Said his family had done enough.”

Arya processed, her mind spinning wildly.  Lannisters.  This Tyrion, he didn’t sound like any of the Lannisters that she had encountered- not Jaime, tying her up and saving her from Fucking Meryn Trant and then sexually assaulting her before Jaqen walked in like an angel of death and saved her, killing him. 

Not Cersei Lannister who had ordered the death of her parents.

Not Cersei Lannister who she had killed with her own hands. 

_ But never trust a fucking Lannister.  _

She tried to make her voice sound casual.  “So, then, what’s the name of your company?  Or your father’s name?”

Gendry chuckled and she realized he was watching her intently.  She summoned the will to make her face impassive.  To be faceless. It had been a long time since she had tried to muster that control.  

She must have succeeded because he leaned in conspiratorially. “Baratheon. Robert Baratheon was my father.”

Arya closed her eyes briefly.  A miasma of thoughts came over her; Robert Baratheon looking at her strangely because she reminded him of her aunt Lyanna; Cersei Lannister stalking through Paris, strange waves of power emanating from her feet; watching the Waif kill the terrorists that Cersei had armed before they could blow Paris to bits.  

And now Gendry was one of them - no, he was the anti-Lannister - plucked from obscurity to undo some of the wrongs the Lannisters had done with their power. 

She had written a fucking book about it, for Christ sakes. 

Arya opened her eyes. “I’ve met your father.”

“What?” Gendry put his beer down. “No shit?”

Arya thought about how much she could tell.  “Yeah, he was friends with my dad.  A long time ago.  He’d come to Winterfell. With his wife. Can’t say I remember much about him...but….” - she gave him an appraising look - “now that I think about it, you do look a little bit like him.  It’s the hair, you see.”  

She leaned over and touched one of the curls that was trying to move down his forehead. 

He caught her hand and held it, looking into her eyes.  She could feel his excitement - not just for her, but the whole experience.  She understood, his world had changed, opened. 

_ Fucking Baratheons.  _  She would say nothing else about it to him.

  _Fucking Gendry._  Blue, blue eyes, burning into hers.

 “Arya. I don’t know...I don’t really know what to do right now. I have a life, you know, I have a life in Chicago.  I don’t know if I can keep it, I don’t know if I want to, I don’t know if I’m going to miss everything if I leave it all behind.”

 His voice was naked in its honesty, in its vulnerability.  Arya felt a distinct shock as he held her hand, felt herself moving closer to him.   _What you see is what you get with Gendry._  This is who he is, even as he tries to figure out his place in the world. 

 She held his gaze, felt herself dampen, his hand gentle but with steel below, holding her.  She was aroused, she felt it, and some of it was pushed forward by the rebellion, the anger at Jaqen...and some of it merely had to do with the six feet of dark hair and blue eyes in front of her.

 

 She thought of this very moment and what she was about to do as if a line was drawn in her life that she was about to step over, never able to cross back over it. 

 

She felt herself at war; anger at Jaqen crystallizing, a very real want in front of her, a revenge.  A normalcy, a constancy.  

 Gendry kept her hand and her gaze and stood up, pulling her to a stand and grabbing her other hand with his. 

 "Arya…” his voice came like a whisper.  “Arya.”

 And then she stepped over the line. 

 She stood up and moved her head towards his, and felt his mouth eagerly seek hers; a different feeling on her lips, a different power in his hands, a different everything as he picked her up and pressed him to her.  Her arms moved down his back, clutching him, and then realizing the foreign shape of him, the different length of him.   _Oh Jaqen. I am so sorry. Oh Gendry. I am so sorry._

 What was she doing.  She broke from him, put her finger on his lips even as she felt the pulsing in her cunt cry out in rebellion. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do this.  

“Gendry, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

_ Fucking hell.  _

Arya stepped back and watched his brow furrow.  She was panting, slightly, and sat back down in her chair, grabbing another cigarette and lighting it furiously.

She kept her head down for a moment, and then looked up at him apologetically. His cheeks had colored, but he nodded and gestured. 

“I’m sorry, Arya. You’re married. I’m sorry.”

Arya was so focused on his face, on the furrow of his brow, on the mop of black hair that she didn’t notice.  Didn’t notice a cool electronic whirring, didn’t see a movement from one of the cameras of her security system, mounted at the edge of the wall.  

All out of Arya’s vision, all out of her knowledge, all she could see was Gendry’s hand around his beer, clenching it too tightly. 

She didn’t see the red light turn on under the camera, and then a tiny green one flash and then darken.   _ Transmission complete.  _


	16. Militia

Jaqen lay in bed and meditated. He pushed himself out of his mind, pushed himself out of Cyprus, pushed himself back into his memories.  Fragments of thought; her toes pushing into the sand in Belize.  That radiant, incandescent smile at the sight of the Mayan pyramids, her face flashing as they climbed.  A face moving from fierceness to tenderness in the space of a heartbeat.  Her gaze on him when he claimed her as his bride, the rainforest teeming with life behind them as witness.

 

_ His love his love his love forgive him. For what he was about to do, and for the tinge of want that made his next duty less difficult.  _

 

And then he readied himself.  

Rose for the day.  

Slipped into the persona. 

Anton had prepared, just as any man does for an important meeting. 

The slide deck was ready. Profit and loss statements created; a five year strategy entwined with market variables to show what profit would look like in different commodities markets. 

To show what riches a fake pipeline laid across Turkmenistan would bring to a certain silver Russian oligarch.  

Anton had steeped himself in the competition, learned what he needed to learn about the industry, created a choice backstory about the pipeline and its safety record. 

And, Anton had shaved carefully, dressed in a sky blue poplin shirt that made his eyes look golden, perhaps washed himself more thoroughly than usual.  

A man must be ready for whatever might happen. 

Anton was in control now; whatever urges or wants or regrets a man might have, they were not Anton’s concern. 

He placed his phone on the marble countertop before he left. He would not need it.  

He left in time to make it to Aegon’s office. 

 

\--

 

The office itself was not too large, but high up in one of the crystalline towers, with the ocean reflecting back at the windows.  Anton was glad to see that only Aegon was here; no red woman, no secretary, no other workers. 

Aegon’s face flashed in professional courtesy and then a smile broke through, like the flash of a shooting star in the sky, mesmerizing.  He ushered Jaqen into the corner office and they sat on walnut and leather chairs. 

“Apologies that I had Mel with me the other night. I’m glad you didn’t speak too openly in front of her.”  Aegon poured Anton a glass of water and it sloshed slightly on the desk as he put it down.  

“Ah, never a good idea to speak of business in front of your wife.”  Anton was testing him.  

“Wife?” Aegon’s face screwed up in humor, a slight annoyance at the thought.  “No, not a wife, not a girlfriend...just...a woman.”  

Anton raised an eyebrow to look at Anton, held his gaze for a moment.  “Yes, they can be troublesome. Or delightful. Usually, both.”  He gave a conspiratorial smirk at that and gestured to the iPad that he’d brought with him with the slide deck.  

Aegon moved behind him to see.  Anton stayed seated, opened the presentation and the logo of his made-up company flashed on screen; images of a pipeline, maps and schematics followed. 

He realized that Aegon was very close behind him, one muscled arm pointing.  When Aegon asked questions, he’d turn his full attention to Anton’s face; his eyes were lighting up. There was a smell of ozone, of citrus, of sea that emanated from Aegon.  Anton was suddenly very aware of the distance between Aegon’s chest and his back...

 

_ Just at the thought of the pipeline.  Nothing more. This is as it should be, he is willing to buy the pipeline; a man may finish his duties earlier than anticipated… _

 

Aegon’s questions were prescient, relevant; Anton could tell how nimble his mind was, see the range of his thoughts, the flashes of genius, the mastery of his subject.  They pored over the slides for almost an hour. 

Anton finished the presentation and Aegon’s hand moved to his shoulder for a moment.

_ Seared his shoulder, burned it, a strange power in his hands, a different size, a different shape. _

Anton stiffened for a moment and turned his head to look up at Aegon.

Their eyes met and Aegon’s face was serious, his gaze impossible to look away from,  _ staring into the sun so that all else falls away, staring at the moon long enough to see the craters and mountains come into relief.  _

Aegon’s hand moved lower and palmed the smooth of his back over the fabric of his shirt.  His eyes had darkened and the mouth had a cruel intensity that he had not yet worn in front of Anton.  Lust.  Anton looked at his mouth, the lips swollen as if stung, a slight wetness on the lower lip, the mouth opening and moving towards him…

And then upon him and his lips were cruel, cruel and powerful, a challenge to be met and Anton twisted to meet him head on, starting to stand, twisting against him. 

Kissing him was not like kissing anyone else. Kissing was not the word for it, there was nothing gentle about it, there was no love, just desire, overwhelming.  Aegon plundered his mouth like he needed to possess him, the strength in his jaw and his lips a challenge to be met, the taste of him so very different than anything he’d ever felt in his life. 

_ So different than a lovely girl.  _

Anton pulled back, aware of his every cell straining towards this man, of his heart - that broken, perfidious, useless thing -  pushing back, stabbing him. 

Aegon had a cruel smirk on his face and pointedly looked down Anton’s form, eyes traveling slowly and zeroing in on the jutting that was impossible to hide, impossible for Anton himself to ignore, pulsing like a drumbeat, straining against his pants. 

_ So different than a lovely girl. So much the same.  _

Anton... _ wanted. Craved him. _

Aegon moved closer towards him; he had pressed his mouth against Anton but not the lean line of his body.  And like an electrical spark, Anton saw evidence of the other man's arousal and pulled himself back from it, not even knowing how he’d want it, just knowing that he did.

Aegon had captured him. 

And now he started to unbutton the shirt that covered Anton, marveling at the golden skin that was revealed.

“Wanted you when I first saw you. Wanted you. To do business with you of course, but fuck, I wanted you, want to fuck you.  _ Oh god.”   _ His voice was low, husking, dragging over Anton’s thoughts, rippling over his skin just as his fingers did...

His fingers moved over the ripple of muscles on Jaqen’s chest, no - Anton’s chest - and played gently in the sparse golden hair.  The silver fingers moved lower and Aegon palmed the ready cock through his pants. 

 

_ Ohhhhhh…. _

 

Jaqen was pierced, but the guilt could not slice through the red cloud of desire in front of him.  Jaqen can’t reconcile with his self.  Anton has no self. Anton is a man and a man wants…

_ This. Like a thunderclap through the air, sudden.  _

Anton grunted, a low thing, guttural, barely concealing a growl.  “Want you…” 

He pushed the hands aside and freed his cock, erect, emerging from his pants and leaned back against the desk, burying his fingers in the silver hair, pushing his head lower.  _ That beautiful mouth, those lips... _  Aegon bit at the soft skin on his abdomen and then his tongue snaked out and in one movement he swooped up a mans cock deep into his throat.

Yes…

_So different, so different but the same._..Aegon’s mouth was so much bigger, stronger, the tongue a muscle in itself, licking the underbelly of his cock as he sucked it, and Anton kept his eyes on Aegon, on the top lip, slightly pink against the silver of his skin, the luminous skin, so much like a girl’s, the cruelty in his eyes as he watched Anton the same as a girl’s, feral, untamed, greedy, and suddenly Anton could not take it as he felt the length of him sucked in, bumping against the back of Aegon’s throat, silver fingers clutching his testicles roughly, a finger dipping lower against him…  

Anton ceased to think and pulled Aegon’s face in closer, thrusting into it, and he took it, he took all of it in his hot wet mouth, the lips a different sensation, and then everything faded to stars as he fired his release into Aegon’s throat, snarling as he shuddered and that tongue, so different, so much the same, licked him up and down and captured his seed. 

_ So different but the same... _

Anton rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, pressing them shut against a vision of grey and white and black, a girl laid out in front of him, a vulnerability, a softness… 

And with a satisfied noise the victor pulled his mouth slowly off of Jaqen’s cock, his eyes half closed with lust, a smile curling on his lips wet with Jaqen's seed.

_ The same.. _

 

 

\--

 

 

Jon and Ygritte slipped out of the cave.  Jon was hungry; they’d been in the cave for almost a day, with nothing to eat after his pack had been depleted.

Ygritte had tried to phone her father again, but the satellite phone had not connected and she was in a furious state, fear nipping at her anger. 

Bit by bit they’d divined what was happening.  The why of it was too strange to comprehend. 

Ygritte’s dad had always been a survivalist.  Hadn’t trusted anyone in power. Hadn’t trusted the institutions of the country, no matter who was behind the wheel.  And so he’d buttressed himself up in the hard, white north.  

It wasn’t just him, though, that felt like that; Ygritte explained, hushed whispers when they were in the forest on their careful walk back, there were hundreds of men like him, tucked away in the wilds.  Up in Northern Michigan, the top of Wisconsin, Minnesota and stretching up to where the forest gave way to the prairie further west.  

A militia.  

A tinderbox, really, ready to spark for decades, and the tightening noose of Homeland Security with the latest president was like a match tossed carelessly onto it. 

Apparently Ygritte’s dad had started to pick off too-curious officers, one sniper-style shot after the other, as they encroached on his property.  

The story came out over miles, hushed whispers as they bent low in the grass, creeping north towards her father’s property, listening for the sound of helicopters or another whine of the fearsome drones that could come low and spot them where they crept.  

Rifle slung on his back, hungry and tired, Jon felt exposed, helpless, much like the deer that they had tried to find at the outset of their trip. 

They continued. 

 

\---

 

 

Gendry wasn’t mad; Arya could tell.

He smiled at her sheepishly and crumpled the beercan in his hand, reaching for another. 

“Arya. Forget it happened. It didn’t happen. I’m sorry.”

She looked over at him; ashamed. 

“No. I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Arya stubbing out the cigarette and watching the smoke ebb.  Fucking Gendry, since when had she wanted fucking Gendry?

Normalcy.  

She cleared her throat. “So, what are you going to do?”

_ Maybe if they just kept talking, they could will the kiss away. _

His face was grateful for the out. 

“Oh man, I don’t know? I mean, I’ve never really thought about it. This just dropped like a dream on me.”  He smiled. The moment had passed.

Arya reached for another beer and waved it towards Gendry. “Well, it is a dream. Cheers to that. Live your dream.”

They thudded the silver cans together and Arya slurped from the can and then put it down.  “Well, what do you want to do?”

Gendry started to talk to Arya, and she was...relieved. Relieved to take the temperature down, relieved to just talk to someone.  Apart from Lyanna, she’d been alone; a strange place for a girl who usually had a man tucked up in her every thought. 

He showed her pictures of the art that they’d been doing, and Arya’s eyes popped.  They were good.  So much better than what they’d put out when they were all in college.  Gendry had been a follower, and Thoros a pretentious, would-be rebel art student. 

That had changed, everything had been pared down, the work was gorgeous, evocative. 

“Oh my god, Gendry, and so this is how you spend your days?  Well no wonder you don’t want to go to the Baratheon cesspool.”  Arya was two beers in and the way that Gendry lifted an eyebrow at her, she’d better watch herself.   _ Baratheon cesspool.   _ Gendry didn’t know how she would know that...she had to operate from what he had told her.

She cleared her throat and tried again.  “I mean, why can’t you just keep on doing this? Sell the company, dissolve it, buy yourself a fucking island and just do this all the time.”

“I mean, just because this whole thing happened doesn’t mean that you have to change. You can still be you.  You haven’t sold your soul or anything.”

Gendry’s face lit up, as if the idea of doing nothing hadn’t occurred to him.  “Honestly, Arya, as soon as he told me all of this, all I wanted to do was walk out the door and pretend like none of it had happened.  This isn’t my world, you know?”

Simple Gendry. Easy, solid Gendry.  Arya pushed back the flush of want that rose up when she saw his innocence.  She couldn’t, she wouldn’t.  

So she just smiled with him, and when he continued to look like a man in disbelief she started laughing, laughing at his face and the whole fucking thing, and his laugh sparked and they giggled together until the humor had run out.  

Her phone lit up and she grabbed it more quickly than she cared to, in front of him.

Not Jaqen. But a message from Varys.  Attachments, plane tickets. A passport waiting for her in NYC.  Leaving tomorrow.  

She exhaled and put the phone down. 

“Your husband?”  Gendry couldn’t mask the disappointment in his voice - a gentle sadness, he was willing to let it all go. 

“In a way. I need to go back to New York tomorrow, fly out to see him.”  Arya’s eyes narrowed for the briefest second.  _ And I’d tell him I’m coming if he would ever answer his fucking phone.  _

“Um. Do you need a ride? I have this ridiculous Mercedes over there...I hear if anyone rides in it that’s not super-rich the seats automatically eject them. You’re cool with that, right?”  He giggled. It was ridiculous, ridiculously flashy. Not his style. 

Arya looked over at him. “Yeah, but - and this is gonna sound weird. Don’t take it this way. Don’t. But - do you want to stay over tonight?  We can drink the rest of these and have dinner and then I have a guest room.  I mean stay in the guest room, don’t be stupid, Gendry.”  She flashed a warning, but a small one. It would be good to have company, to talk about normal things, to pretend like she was just a normal human, not getting ready to fly off to see her husband.

_ Who had apparently dropped off the edge of the earth, who wouldn’t get back to her, who was in the middle of a compromising assignment and hadn’t fucking told her about it.  _

Arya tilted the beer back, finished it and grabbed two more, putting one in front of Gendry.   

“Yes, that’s what we’ll do. Not taking no for an answer, Richie Rich.  Your first outing as a zillionaire is to be my chauffeur.  And maybe make me dinner.”

Gendry smiled.  “As you wish, m'lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Het female here, never written m/m before. your feedback requested. did it work? Or not? let me know, help me get better at this.


	17. Thalia. Thalia Grey.

_The tide always returns to his lover._

 

_Just because the tide moves away to the shore, searching for peace, freedom from his beautiful moon only for a moment, does not mean that he is not bound to her.  Sometimes he runs away playfully. A gentle lapping along the toes of children, running and shrieking in mirth._

_And sometimes he escapes in a fury, high tide again; a king tide that screams as he hits against rocks, that washes away sandbars at the shore, exposing past hurts._

_The moon will beckon, her gravitational force undeniable, and though the tide may think to rebel against her, grasping the shoreline with foamy white tendrils, he can not, will not fight her._

_Her power extends beyond when she is in his field of vision, for even in the highest daylight, hidden behind those unsparing sunlit rays, he can still feel her, pulling him at her whim._

_It is at night, however, when she is at her most beguiling. The physical presence of her, a blue light as soft as a mother caressing a child, tipping each of his waves with her fingers._

_Sometimes the planets come and carefully approach her, their bright lights still diminished by her.  And when she is large and the night is dark he can see her canyons in relief, scars of another time, secrets she keeps. The tide does not ask; they do not diminish her power over him._

_His beautiful moon rewards him with her presence when he returns to her.  And just as he strains to reach her, her bonds snap and push him, push him back to the land.  And the tide rushes back to the shore, despondent or determined, compliant or enraged, and musters his strength to roll back out to the sea and return back to his secretive, luminous lover._

 

\----

 

 

As the clouds of Jaqen’s lust started to clear he became aware of Aegon, still kneeling in front of him, violet eyes greedily flicking up his body, a victoriousness as he looked at his prize.

The lust vaporized and left a blade of guilt carving through Jaqen’s gut, all the more sharp with the tangible knowledge that he had wanted this. Wanted him, wanted his mouth on him, drowned in the silvery skin.

Arya. Arya. It had been an abstraction, a mental exercise to think about obtaining intelligence for Varys; a way to reengage with his former self, to find little shards of his soul that he had discarded and let new growth cover when he met Arya.  When she gave him a new life. She gave him _everything._

He had stopped everything for her, a promise he made in his head as she lay in front of him crimson lidded and slackjawed, broken and vandalized by Meryn Trant and Jaime Lannister.

Jaqen felt himself slipping back...into himself. _Control_. He had to come back to the present. He had to. He had to.

Anton shook his head slowly and a smile coyly moved across his face.

Jaqen hoped it would cover the guilt he felt as physically as any cannonball to the gut.

Aegon stood in front of him.  He was beautiful, but it was his focused, laserlike attention on Jaqen, that mind moving a thousand miles a minute, his favor warm like the sun that made him so...beguiling.

Aegon reached for Anton and kissed him again.  Oh those punishing kisses, that mouth that mouth that feels so strong, insistent, powerful.  Anton curled his arms around the silver head and crushed it to him, exorcising his feelings by only existing in this possible moment:

 _the one that had a luminous starman in front of him daring him to surrender_.

Aegon broke the kiss and smiled, again almost cruelty reflected in his face; the want had diminished but the intense interest in the man in front of him had not.

His face was only a few inches away from Anton’s, and Anton watched as Aegon focused in on his lip, his bottom lip as a girl the same the same would

Aegon breathed out, his speech tinged with more Russian accent than had been heard before. “Fuck. Tasted so good. Want to take you over and over again.”  

His lips were a swollen, ripe thing on Jaqens mouth, tinged with a man’s salty bitterness and that ozone taste that emanated, and then on his neck, nipping roughly, and then Anton felt his head get pulled back, the violet eyes assessing him, burning him.

And just as quickly as it had started it all stopped, and Aegon moved away from Jaqen and turned towards the window, looking down at the streets of Limassol, straightening his posture into one long, thin line of muscle.

“I need more information from you.  You’ve brought the last few years of profit and loss, but I need to see the contracts that you have in place currently. We need to do a full diplomatic review, this is sensitive. Extremely. A risk, a big risk….but…..We’ll take a first look at it, and then I’ll give to my lawyer to dissect. Tomorrow.  I’ll take you to dinner, we’ll do some business, and then…”

Aegon turned and spun on his heel to Anton. His movement was fluid, powerful, and his face belied no trace of what had just happened, his voice brisk and businesslike.

He kept his tone matter-of-fact, even as the lewdness of his next sentence enflamed Anton, engorged him, despite _Jaqen’s_ best efforts to quell it.

“And then I’m going to take you to my villa and fuck you, fuck you the way I want to.”

 

\--

 

That night Jaqen stood under his showerhead, ignoring the heat scalding his flesh, stood under the rush of water and steam and tried to clear his mind of the silvery flash that had invaded him.  Infected him. A virus.

She hadn’t called again.  He was so close, with Aegon, the deal was close. Dinner tomorrow. And then…

He shook his head, shook the vision out of it, the lewd words that came out of the stung lips, the mercurial eyes, he put his face in the hot water and wincing as the pain of it hit his cheeks, his eyes.   _Cleanse yourself._  And then he’d be finished and he’d go back to his bride, his love, his heart, his moon.  If she would have him.

 

\--

 

Melisandre was furious.  And scared.  She had tried to regain her footing with Aegon, even as the path to keep him got steeper.

He had discarded her the night he met that man.

Discarded.  The right word. She rolled it around her tongue in English, thought of the russian equivalent. _Otbrasyvat._ Like the trash. _Vybrosit._

_She could not let that happen. She could not let the light slip through her fingers._

And she could not fail.  The consequences...well, she did not want to face the president.  After all, he had brought her in to finish the job.  Aegon was one of his favorites, and he was aware, in his sly-fox way, that Aegon was the people’s favorite.  Too dangerous to let him drift to rebellion unchecked.

And it was going so well before that man came in.

She called, furiously, after Aegon had dropped her off that night, barely a peck on the cheek, his eyes distracted, annoyed by her. She called her sources and had them start digging.  And writing, possibly creating a story to discredit that man.  Anton. Anton Zurali.

They’d found information, but all of it...strange.  Sentences, here and there - no press mentions beyond a few wire stories, no early days, nothing that she could point to with any certainty. She didn’t know if it was the barbaric Turkmenistan press, not reporting on anything noteworthy. But something in everything she saw seemed...off. And the images of him...so few, strange for such a young, handsome, successful man.

She’d have to send a contact deeper, go look for his family home, all of that.  Anton Zurali had a past, somewhere, a past beyond the sanitized public presence that she was able to find.

Anton Zurali was vulnerable, somehow.

And if Aegon took his deal, oh Aegon was vulnerable as well.  Aegon had already angered the president. It would not take long after he signed a deal, should he decide to, for it to happen.

Melisandre fumed. She’d hoped to extend this job, return triumphant; the president would not appreciate this break in information. What a waste. _Vybrosit._

 

 

\--

 

“I miss you, sweetheart.”

Willas’ voice sounded weary. Tired.

Sansa held the phone to her ear as she walked through their flat.

“I miss you, too.” As the words came out of her mouth she grimaced. She didn’t, but the last few days had been topsy turvy; the few occasions that she had been home she’d felt like an interloper.  Petyr had kept her up to great heights and she hadn’t yet crashed from them; hadn’t been alone enough.  This afternoon was one of the first times she’d just been able to process information, alone in the house.

Hadn’t found her new normal.

She could imagine Willas running his fingers through his hair as he sighed. “We’re almost wrapped up here, for now at least. Loras is being difficult. He and Margaery are trying so hard not to strangle each other.  There’s a lot to untangle. Grandmother was very complicated. You know, we found in her effects, that she’d had some torrid affair in the sixties?”

Sansa laughed, a real one. “Woe be the man who has an affair with Olenna Tyrell. Willas, your grandmother was a force.”

Willas snickered, a little bit. “Actually, some of the correspondance we’ve found from the board members of her company refer to her as Hurricane Olenna, so you’re not wrong.”

He sighed again and Sansa heard a muffled sound as though he’d moved the phone too far from his mouth.  “These two, though, I swear, I’m ready to just give up my stake and let them co-execute the will. It wouldn’t be easier but it would at least be entertaining.”

Sansa answered quickly. “Willas. Don’t be crazy. She wanted you to have your stake. And that’s the last thing either of them need, millions of your dollars.”

Willas answered slowly. “Millions? Oh, Sansa, try again. Grandmother had more money than any of us thought. I’m dealing with almost two billion dollars in assets, once everything shakes down.”

Sansa’s mouth went slack.

“Billions?”

“Apparently Grandmother was more savvy than we thought and had diversified in the eighties and nineties.  She had bought in really early to some tech companies; she bought a bunch of Apple stock in 1998, etc, etc.”

Sansa recovered.  “Well, good thing you’re there then. Don’t let those two bulldoze you.”

“I would just get out of their way, honestly.” The sigh, again; this time Sansa could picture his great brown eyes closing slowly.  “Sansa, there’s something else…”

Her heart jumped up and started to hammer against her chest; the fingers holding her phone had whitened and she felt a rush of wooziness.  A sudden, physical manifestation of fear.

She waited for him to speak.

“Grandmother had gone to the doctor the day before she died, and he swore up and down that she was healthy as a horse.  Couldn’t believe she’d had a heart attack; he’d just done a full panel of tests on her. He was convinced that she’d outlive all of us.”

Sansa exhaled in relief.

“Sansa, he wants us to exhume her, do an autopsy.”

 

\---

 

 

Arya laughed.

 

And laughed.

And laughed.

At herself, mostly - “I’m never drinking again, ever.”

_Bullshit._

She and Gendry had made a sloppy dinner of pasta and sauce and then he’d turned the stereo up and played her some music, Beric’s band; one woebegone song had been written for one of Sansa’s friends.

“It’s like a fucking cat mewling.  God Beric, pull it together!”  Arya snorted.

“Right??  Je-SUS.”  Gendry hadn’t stopped smiling, really.

It was comfortable.

Arya hadn’t felt the flash that drove her to kiss him again; she could see that Gendry had rode it out as well.  She was...glad? A tiny frisson of disappointment; a would-have-been, and then blown away by the realization of where she was headed tomorrow.

_Tomorrow!_

“Gendryyyyyyy.  I need to pack.  You’re chauffering me tomorrow, remember?”  She motioned for him to follow her and made her way back to the bedroom, pulling a suitcase out of the closet.

“Want me to pick out your clothes? I have excellent taste, you know.” He giggled.

Arya smiled back. Gendry was wasted.

“No. I need to figure out who I need to be on this trip,” she said, and as the words slipped out she was horrified.

Gendry was too drunk to catch that.

Or maybe not.

“Just be Arya Stark.” His words caught her, stung her.

_If only she could be._

 

\--

 

They slept that night curled up, fully dressed; passed out on the couch together.  Arya felt his arm wrap around her and she snuggled in. Comfort.

 

\--

 

The next morning was bleary, tasted bad, and Arya cursed herself as she waited for the goddamned fucking coffee to hurry up.  Gendry was quiet on the couch, still half-asleep.

Two cups of coffee in, one taken by herself on the deck, one taken with Gendry joining her quietly, listening to the sound of the woods wake up with them.

A shower, to cleanse Arya Stark off of her; a dress, soft and gray and long with a plunging back, something that had always inflamed a man.  A wrap, to cover that.  Arya wound her hair up in a tight braid to protect from the wind of Gendry’s ridiculous car.

 

\--

 

He drove her back to the city in silence.  As the bridge appeared and the jagged edges of the skyline came into relief he spoke, eyes not leaving the road.

“Arya. I miss you. If you ever decide to leave your husband, just come to see me, okay? I think it could work, this time.”  

She could have missed his voice over the roar of the wind. She didn’t. It was there, a comforting thing, without pressure.  

“Gendry...I love my husband.  But…”

She paused.

“I love him. I love him. But I’ll remember that. Just in case.”

 

\--

 

They stopped and Arya hopped out of the car to pick up the package waiting for her at the FedEx office.  She opened it in the car.  Tickets. And a new passport. And a folder, background information; a link to an online folder that held the key to the identity that Varys wanted her to wrap around herself.

She ignored Gendry’s curious eyes as she scanned the documents.  

 

British, this time.

_Thalia. Thalia Grey._

She closed her eyes and submerged herself in it. _Thalia Grey. Thalia Grey._

In Cyprus for pleasure. A lawyer, just finishing a case. Settled. On holiday to celebrate. Alone, single, lives in London.

She pored over the documents until the smooth movement of the car had stopped and Arya found herself at the airport.

Gendry looked at her quizzically.

She carefully arranged the papers in her bag and then turned to him.

“It’s weird, I know.  Listen, Gendry, in ten years...in ten years, we’ll get together. As friends. Two cases of Coors Light.  I’ll tell you all of my secrets.  All of it.”

She silently thanked the stars that he’d been so tactful.

She moved and grabbed his big mass of curls, held his head to her and hugged him fiercely.   _Thank you,_ she thought, _thank you for being just what I needed._

She tipped his chin up and kissed him on the lips chastely and then hugged him again.

“Good luck with all of your money, Gendry.” She laughed. “If I can ever get a hold of Sansa, I’ll have her help you spend it.  Charities, and all of that. It’s what she _does_.”

Gendry reached back for her and smoothed his hand over the errant strands that had been blown about her face from the drive.  He kept her eyes for a moment, a pleading was deep behind them, deep under the blue surface, a shipwreck under the waves.

“Arya. I meant it.”

Arya bit her lip and nodded.  “I know.”

She ducked down to give him  another kiss, let this one linger, even as she kept her lips together.  

“I know.”

 

\--

Arya, no, Thalia, had made it past security; although it had been an issue.  She moved to the plane; oh thank you jesus and varys for first class seats; and waited for the plane to start to taxi from the runway.  The file of papers was in her bag; she’d have plenty of time to read through it.

Her phone was tucked in the pocket in front of her and she felt the always disconcerting motion of takeoff.  Tired, so tired. So...strange. Running off to see Jaqen, and he didn’t know it, wouldn't know it until he saw her across the room.

She felt a flare of anger. What would she do when she found him?

She stared at her phone, the screen blank.

She supposed she would find out, soon enough.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for completely butchering the russian words in this...correct me if I'm wrong, please.
> 
> also: I know it's a slow ride to reunion, but hopefully not too slow? Things Must Happen. Please let me know.
> 
> next chap: Reunited and it feels so...well...and jon/ygritte mayhem in the north.


	18. Smother

The usual murmurations of the woods had stilled and only the electric humming of insects surrounded them as they carefully picked their way to where they’d left Ygritte’s father, among a tangle of wire and tools and chickens and scrap wood of his compound. 

Jon understood how Ygritte could come to be, up here; how all of the little stories and memories of this earth and family, the brutal test of winter every year, the isolating whiteness that intoxicates at first and smothers as months stretch on.

The sharp sweetness of summer and brambles and water beckoning through leafy pathways.

And Ygritte herself, part animal, part skeptic, part precocious girlchild; a product of all of it, bound by blood and love for the man that had raised her.

Who lay dead up against his compound, a signature of blood showing that he’d been standing up against the wall before he was gunned down.

As they drew closer Ygritte broke into a run, out of Jon’s grasp and he cautiously scanned the skies and the surrounding brush before joining her: whatever had come was gone, or well hidden.

Ygritte rocked and held her father's head, the tangled red hair and beard shot with silver, his sharp eyes finally clouded. A woman's grief, a daughter’s grief...Jon had seen it too many times before, in the villages of Afghanistan during his deployment, on his sisters’ faces through a videoscreen as he tried to comfort them from his hot and dusty barracks when Cat and Ned met their death. 

And now he saw it in Ygritte’s face and encircled her and her father's corpse, feeling her start to shudder as his arms gave her comfort, feeling the weight of the still warm body against him, the blood seeping out from one shot given to the back.

Somewhere underneath, or above, or around all of it...the realization that he’d fought for this government, almost died for this government, and he did not recognize what was happening.  He knew their playbook, or at least he had.  This was alien to him.

He gave her what he could, the strength of his arms around her and his face slicked with tears as well and he held her and her father for a thousand heartbeats until he heard Ygritte sharply breathe in and start to push away from him. 

Looking up at his face through reddened eyes, her face distorted in grief she spoke. 

“We need to sound the alarm, Jon, we need to make sure the others know. They’re coming after the militia.”

 

-

 

 

The thin man was in charge of this office.  He oversaw hundreds of men, all who had gone through some degree or another of training.  The oligarchs did not have to.  And so they did what they pleased, mostly. Still, the thin man was incredulous. 

No one spent the president’s money like this without anything to show for it. The white man had not moved the needle at all, had not produced what he’d been instructed to, right wing nationalist candidates all over Europe falling, the movement starting to splinter.  The Targaryen showed such political promise, when he’d been focused on it. There were murmurings that if he’d wanted, he’d be able to unseat the president himself. 

It was in the president’s interest to keep him close. 

The red woman had called in about him, angry.  _ Krasnaya zhenshchina.  _ It was said that her victims had red fingerprints all over them, that her fingers were like hot pokers, burning the truth out of them. That the red ruby around her throat would mesmerize them. She never failed.  But apparently the Targaryen had grown tired of her. 

He shook his head. Targaryen madness. The red woman was luscious, irresistible.  All the stories he’d heard about the Targaryen family when he was a boy made him think that they were made out of fire, as well. You’d think it would be a perfect match.  Madness to deny her, and all for some  _ man _ out of Turkmenistan.

The Targaryens always had a weak spot, always were irrational in love. The white one’s father had lost his mind after his second wife was killed. It was said that a great painting of the woman hung in their estate, that the father would lay in front of the motionless image of a woman with white skin and dark hair and iron-gray eyes and wail after her murder, the murder of their unborn child.  He made his son, the white one, stare up at the painting with him.  He was never the same again. 

The thin man frowned at the new name he was given. 

It was unfamiliar.  _ Anton Zurali.  _

He sighed and started to write up instructions, making sure to find his most effective contact in Ashgabat, that strange city: white and gold, Turkmenistan still so close to Russia.  Surely they’d find some trace, some family, some history for that man, be able to understand what kind of sway he had over the Targaryen.

 

The president had demanded it.  

 

 

 

 

Willas was coming home.

Sansa heard the break in his voice when he had called her that morning, the tiredness ragged around the edges with sorrow.

She very quickly canceled her dinner plans. 

A good wife. She had to be. 

Guiltily she realized that Willas deserved nothing less. 

When he walked in she heard him exhale just after the door shut.  Guilt propelled her forward, guilt pulled her hands to his face.

He managed a little smile for her and pulled her close to him for a moment, she felt the tendrils of his breath warmly in top of her hair. 

He still felt like a stranger to her, even as he held her his arms felt foreign, his smell not the same. But she had cast off  _ expecting _ herself to want him, to be in love with him. That was for Petyr now. And so as Petyr told her - her job is to the good wife.

She would have done it anyway, even without Petyr’s voice in her mind, urging her on. It’s what she had been doing. It’s all she saw in her past once the bubbly energy of their initial few years wore off, once the fondness had started to become sticky, cloying. It just would have been joyless, her duty another hill in front of her to climb. Pleasant, yes, but duty all the same. 

Willas broke from her and gave a smooch on the top of her head. 

“Loras and Margaery are ready to eat each other alive over Grandmother’s jewels. I had to leave, just for a few days. There’s still so much to untangle. We’ve got paperwork running through the system to exhume her. It’s just...too much to process.”

He sounded so weary. It sparked a gentleness in Sansa, as if she were caring for a tired child. A duty.

“Come on, Willas, let’s settle in. Tell me about it.”

He was quiet, uncharacteristically so, and gave a guilty smile. “I’ve  _ talked _ enough over the past week, love...I really just want to sit for a little bit.”

“Are you hungry? Do you want me to order something? I can….”

Willas put a large hand on her; she looked at his fingers, long, his wedding ring weighing his hand down on her arm. She looked at his face,  _ really _ looked at it: the dark stiff hairs poking out around his chin, purpling under his golden brown eyes, the kindness in them still there but weighted. His lips were thin, drawn. He looked so tired.

“Sansa, love, I’m not. Not at all.” 

There was some finality to his voice and she let him walk out into the living room.  She stood stock-still: she felt like she was on set, like she was playacting; it was preferable to being bulldozed by the guilt she’d been vacillating up against.  Very well. Her job lie out there.

She walked into the living room and curled over him as he lie on the couch. She looked down at the carpet, remembering some other version of herself, looked at the chair where she’d been taken, looked all around the room where she’d been ignited, and then down at placid, calm Willas, tired martyr Willas.

She stroked his hair silently and he fell asleep under her touch. She did not move, thinking about the duality of what was happening in her life; death on one side and a frightening, vital rebirth on the other. 

She sat there until the sun went down, Willas’ hair under her fingers, her legs curled up underneath her. 

 

\--

 

 

Arya shook herself awake and exited the plane at London, moving to the gate that would take her to Paphos. 

Correction. Thalia. 

She called Varys, emotionless; she’d had time to process this new identity, and listened grimly as Varys detailed his expectations of her.

Not to interrupt Jaqen’s work. But go ahead and watch him; he had a meeting set up with his target that evening, he’d be out to a working dinner with him.

_ If your curiosity is so hungry, then sate it, Arya Stark. Just don’t interfere. His job is almost done. You can watch. But do not break him out of his role. His target will spook. _

She heard Varys’ voice roll through her mind and stiffened at the undertones of it. An impossibility of it, watching him from across the room. She wrote down the name of the place and the time.  She’d be able to land in Paphos and get to Limassol; she’d have time to freshen herself up and time to process all of this fucking bullshit. 

And try to figure out how to deal with Jaqen, try to still herself from running to him. Or decking him. 

Try to understand why he’d left her for this duty, this fucking duty that Varys spoke of like it was a fucking holy undertaking. 

And why he’d not responded to her messages for the past five days.

And what the fuck she wanted to do about it.

Her entire being keened; it was confusing. She felt cold white rage and it would ebb and then the hot, teary sadness of missing him would flow. 

She didn’t know what to do.  

On the jet to Paphos she let herself sink into her own memories. 

Their wedding, no, plural.  The first one, in Belize, the old man the sole witness, murmuring their vows in Spanish.  The jungle behind them, light flickering through the canopy.  Nothing special outwardly; Arya had worn the same sundress that she’d occasionally put on when they’d venture into the nearby town.  Jaqen’s eyes locked on her all the same, the mounting excitement visible on his face.  The possessiveness in his voice. He’d repeated after the priest, flawless Spanish out of his mouth, his vows circling her.  He added after each:  _ Mine.  Mine. _ The word so greedy, so entirely appropriate for the man who had consumed her. 

_ Mine.  _

_ Yours.  _

Arya tried to fight back tears.  What a fucking lie. 

Their second ceremony was in Winterfell; Sansa had demanded it. And so in front of Bran, Sansa and Jon alone, the kindly old priest - that had performed this ceremony for Cat and Ned so many years ago - stood on the rocky cliff above the lake, with Superior as witness.  Arya had shivered in the dove-grey matte silk, flimsy, skirt flying in the wind.  And just as the jungle had felt like Jaqen’s natural place, so the wild woods and furious waves of the northern lake had felt like Arya’s; for some reason the resonant cadence of the priest’s voice had struck her even more deeply as she strained to hear it above the crashing waves.

_ Yours.  _

_ Mine.  _

Afterwards Sansa had tried to understand Jaqen, tried to figure out who this man was that had stolen, completely, her younger sister.  Arya stilled a laugh as she watched Jaqen pull out a character for Sansa, a new face, one that she’d more readily understand.  

Sansa never really trusted Jaqen, even after all they’d been through. And Jaqen apparently never really trusted Sansa; he’d fall quiet when she’d start talking, he’d see right through her.

They were oil and water. 

Sansa. So strange lately. She was hiding something. 

Fuck.  _ Everyone was, these days. _

Arya shrugged a feeling of guilt off. She might have kissed Gendry, but she’d caught herself before she allowed herself anything more.  And she felt more tender towards Gendry now; a brother, a friend, navigating some unknown terrain himself. 

But she had wanted him. 

At the hotel Arya stared at herself, showered and then decided to put on a plum colored dress, cut similarly to the one she’d worn while traveling.  The back was open to the waist; the front of it grazed just under her collarbone.  The little opal that Jaqen had given her flashed in the light. 

She looked at her face and decided that Thalia would wear makeup. Thalia would wear lipstick, and Thalia would concentrate on a careful line of black above her eyelashes, and then darken those eyelashes with mascara. 

She nodded, approvingly, at the face that looked back at her in the mirror.  She twisted her hair in a messy braid to the side and pronounced herself finished.

And then she looked in the mirror, staring into the depths of her own eyes. Sadness, there, and defiance, and anger.  She stared until they went out of focus and then snapped herself out of it.

And smiled at Thalia, British lawyer, ready to go spend some time at an incredibly posh bar in Limassol, where she knew one golden man would arrive with his mark.  A man that she would not even talk to, much less acknowledge, but watch out of the corner of her eye until she could secret him away when his mission was complete. 

She left the hotel and walked with purposeful steps to her arrival.

_ Jaqen... _

 

\--

 

 

Jaqen hadn’t slept well. 

He dreamt of Arya all night. A girl had infiltrated his thoughts, and his dreams of her were submissive; he was in trouble, he had done it to himself. 

A man had fucked up. 

He worried about calling her now, went back and forth between panicking, ready to phone her and then shaking his head: he’d be done so soon, Aegon was so pliable, he’d be able to call her in triumph and pull his lovely girl over to this side of the world, take her to Turkey, show her all of the places he’d walked as a child.  

And then off again, hopefully, on a longer jaunt.

He was restless.

He hadn’t realized how caged in he had felt in New York. The angles of the house that he had built, the house he had loved, were smothering him with their permanence. 

Aegon...and the desire that he felt towards him, a man could not deny some animalistic need with Aegon, a surrendering….Aegon was not the reason he did not reach out to his lovely wife. 

It was...an effect, an effect of feeling in stasis, an effect of feeling less, an effect of not understanding his place in the world.

A man had a miserable night. 

Arya. Arya. When he woke from another fitful hour of sleep and saw that the dawn had not yet broke he meditated on her, on her face.  Arya. 

She must forgive him.

And then he flipped the coin in his mind, examined the other side. 

Aegon. 

There was something so...mesmerizing about him.  His face was masculine, but had an androgynous look to it; the lips could be a woman’s, full and lush; the cheekbones reminiscent of a model, the whole effect one of shock. And his movements, so quick, and the way the emotions wrapped around his face.

A man did not mean to want him. He did not know what to do about it; finish the job, just so, and go back to his old life; should a lovely girl have him. 

A man wanted to spirit her away, keep her on the road, travel forever and rail against the type of cage that he had constructed with his own hands.

Jaqen decided against trying to sleep.  It was...not the time. When the sun rose he changed into swim trunks and made his way out to the public beach. 

The ocean reflected gentle pinks and oranges in her waves and he looked out at the water guiltily.  A girl would love this. A girl would take him, and chase him into the water; she’d swim underneath him like an eel, curling around him, covering his mouth and stealing his air with her own lips. 

He dove into the water and swam out.  It was cold, but not so cold as a girls favored lake.  It was cleansing. 

He moved his arms through the water to empty his mind, clear out the guilt. 

And when he returned to the shore he felt better.  Motivated. A plan.

He would demur, with Aegon later tonight.  This was a fool’s errand. Aegon would give him the information that he needed soon.  No need to draw it out, no need to fuck it out of him. The pipeline itself was a tempting deal.  Once the papers were signed it would be out of a man’s hands.  And he would call for his lovely Arya, beg her forgiveness, explain to her all of the things that had tormented him.

Arya would know. She knew the inside of his mind, she knew the bottom of his lust and the heights of his rapture.  

She would understand.  He loved her too much.  Aegon was a distraction, a moment in time, a job he had to finish. 

 

Just so. 

 

With the realization of his plan, he suddenly felt all of his tension fall away, and the exhaustion of the night before washed over him. Blearily he pulled himself out of the water and made his way back to his apartment, falling asleep before he could even shower, pulling the wet shorts off of himself and laying naked on the couch.

He slept, as naked as the day he was born, the salt water drying his skin, for hours.

 

\--

 

He woke up to a pounding on his door and looked at his watch in alarm. 

It was almost two hours before he was supposed to meet Aegon. The place, the time...they were set. He had transmitted this to Varys as an update.  He wasn’t late. 

He looked through the peephole, suddenly aware of his nakedness, the mantle of sleep dissolving immediately as he saw what stood out on his landing. 

 

He had come. 

 

The door knocked again and Jaqen saw Aegon’s face screw up in...excitement? as he pounded. 

Fuck. 

Jaqen quickly looked around. The apartment was spotless, perfect...no trace of anything. 

“Just a moment…” he said, loud enough for Aegon to hear, affecting the accent that Anton would use.

“Just let me in…” Aegon’s voice was clear as a bell, sharp. 

His pants? Fuck..he’d had on those shorts before.

Jaqen found a pair of lounging pants that he’d intended to wear running and slipped them on.

He opened the door.

Aegon’s eyes widened appreciatively at Jaqen’s chest, bared in front of him.

A catlike smile stretched over his face.

“This is..exactly how I wanted to find you.”  Aegon’s voice melted, dripped over Jaqen, clear and...and then was gone as that mouth, those lips found his own, that power washing over Jaqen like a tidal wave. 

Correction. Washing over Anton like a tidal wave. 

Anton kissed him back, the force of Aegon’s lips so consuming, the push of his hands on Jaqen’s - no, Anton’s - chest making his nipples stiffen.  Aegon kissed him forcefully and pushed him back, back into the apartment until Jaqen hit the edge of the couch. 

Aegon’s mouth was everywhere, licking along his neck, the stung lips grabbing at nipples, a stiffened tongue pointing down the line defining his abdomen, and his hands were suddenly on the stretchy sweatpant material and gods he was rising, he was rising for him, he couldn’t even stop himself…

….all of his carefully laid plans pushed away by this tall, willowy man with the beautiful face…

Anton groaned as Aegon’s fingers slipped into the waistband of his pants and pulled them down and his cock felt the agony of the air whistling around its heat, shaking his head until Aegon stopped him, grabbing his hair roughly and kissing along the line of his jaw as his hand closed around Anton’s length. 

“You’re ready for me. God. All I could think about was you, all I could concentrate on was you, all day long. I had to have you. I can’t wait until after we finish tonight.”

Anton had said nothing, just watched as Aegon took him over, consumed him, walked into his apartment like a lightning bolt and suddenly all of his senses were on overdrive, everything alert, awake...alive….

Aegon’s sweet mouth was on his cock, that hot mouth, wet, sucking on him furiously and then suddenly gone before Anton could realize what was happening….he saw out of the corner of his eye Aegon’s clothes vanish and then he focused in on the man in front of him, long and pale, a smattering of silver hairs on him, his cock rising out of a thatch of platinum...

Anton could not stop himself from moving toward it, he wanted him, a thunderclap sudden and harsh and leaving room for nothing else, no rational thought, no guilt, nothing...just that cock...that slipped up into his mouth, the he strained to take in, moving his head the way he wanted to, the way he loved it when a lovely…

….when Aegon had sucked him off the last time, furiously as if his life depended on it, and the sight of his face, eyes screwing up in pleasure and then suddenly pushing him off’; Anton gasped with his mouth, empty, empty and realized that Aegon was pushing him down, pushing him back on the couch, that suddenly that mouth had dipped lower and a pointed tongue was probing, flicking up against the ring of muscle. 

Aegon groaned.

“Your fucking ass, god, I want it…” and then buried his tongue even deeper. 

Anton gasped. STrange...it felt good...so strange though...and then Aegon’s long silver finger popped in and out of his mouth and then the pressure of it against his anus, the one finger sliding into the knuckle and then deeper and Aegon groaned in anticipation.

“Sssss...stop….”  Anton didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it. Anton wanted this...Jaqen wanted to be finished, take his beautiful girl across the world but Anton was here and FUCK another finger, slicked from Aegon’s mouth, Aegon’s mouth sucking his balls, the hot breath against the fingers that were now working him, ungently stretching him.

“You don’t want me to stop.”  Aegon moved his head up and away and Anton twitched from the lack of it.  

“You don’t want me to stop.  Do you.”  

It was a command and it was the truth and all Anton could do was grind his hips towards him, spreading his legs out for him.

A cruel smile spread across Aegon’s face and he spit in his palm and slicked himself further, already wet from Jaqen’s mouth.  He leaned up against him and Jaqen felt the muscles up against his thighs and a tentative poking where Aegon’s fingers had just claimed; a slipping a slipping a slipping oh fuck, and Aegon slowly moved himself into Anton laying on his back in front of him, and Aegon’s long fingers circled around Anton’s cock.

Fuck…

Aegon started to move, his eyes rolling back up in head, muttering and whispering and groaning his pleasure, and Anton saw stars, stars and Aegon’s hand pumped in time with the cock that was filling him, that was hitting a part of him he did not realize he had.

Fuck….

After Aegon had started to move more fiercely, keeping his hand on Antons cock, Anton could not wait anymore; the feeling against him, the pain of his ass, Aegon milking his cock furiously and he came, spewing all over Aegon’s hand and out of his closing eyes he saw that smile again, that catlike, greedy smile, and then Aegon’s smile turned into a grimace and he pumped even harder, erratically into Anton and a warm wetness spread and pulsed into him.

Fuck…

What the fuck...had just happened.

It was painful as Aegon unsheathed himself; painful and hypersensitive and pleasurable and Anton tried to still the moan that came out of his mouth when he felt the sudden lack. 

Aegon curled up on him and put his face up against Anton, ignoring the cum that slicked between them, unaware of the growing feeling of dread that washed through Anton - Jaqen - like a flash flood filling a canyon. 

After a few minutes, silent, two chests pressed up against each other, four muscled arms clutching each other, a breathing synced and slowing, Aegon kissed underneath Anton’s jaw and then rolled up over him, smiling beatifically down. 

“I couldn’t possibly sit through an entire evening with you. I needed you.”

Aegon shivered and then the mercurial look crossed his face, a devilish smile and Anton could not help but focus on those lips, those lips that had plundered him completely, washed every bit of will away. 

Aegon kissed him again, a sharp kiss, insistent and selfish, pulling back to himself when his pleasure was found.  He sat up and looked appreciatively at Anton’s body splayed out next to him.

“Now I’m ready.  Let’s go eat, let’s figure this out. And our plans for afterwards...still stand.”

Anton moved to the shower but Aegon stopped him.  “No, I want to smell you, I want to know that you smell like your cum, that I cummed all over you, in you. I want to look at you and know it’s still on you, it covers you.”

Anton noticed that the other man’s cock was rising again and twinged between want and guilt. Fucking Aegon was a tornado, a cyclone, overpowering his every move, his every thought. Fuck. Fuck.

_ Almost done, this is almost done.  _

In a dark corner of his mind, he thought about how submissive he was to Aegon, how it felt to just completely allow him to take over. 

They dressed and made their way to the bar. 

 

 

 

\---

Anton kept his head down, quiet as they walked in.  His feelings were all over the place; wanton, guilty, despondent, ebullient. 

_ Fuck.  _

As they sat down Aegon ordered a bottle of wine and Anton pulled out the documents, yes, the carefully crafted documents that Varys had sent him earlier.  He pulled them out over the table and looked up at Aegon expectantly, ready to start the discussion that could be his last.

A twinge of disapointment.  A slab of guilt, heavy.  Uncertainty, a blanket smothering him.

He looked over at Aegon; he had focused his sight on a figure across the bar.  Anton heard his breath suck in, saw his eyes glaze over.

“Is everything alright?”  Anton touched Aegon’s arm, allowing his fingers to play on the long white forearm.

“That woman. That woman over there.”  Aegon’s words came fast, furious, a whisper that sounded almost reverent.

As Anton’s eyes moved to the woman he froze, and from very faraway he heard Aegon’s next sentence. 

“That woman looks like my father’s second wife. Exactly. She was murdered. Holy shit.  _ Svyatoye grebanoye der'mo.” _

Aegon was still speaking, but Jaqen barely heard him, Jaqen was sitting next to him now but a million miles away.  That woman.

“She looks like the fucking ghost of Lyanna Stark.” Aegon breathed and made a sign of the cross on himself.

And from across the room, a lovely girl noticed that they were staring at her.  Her eyes were cold, Jaqen could see, but she held herself back and her gaze caught his and then coolly flicked to the drink in front of her. 

“Lyanna Stark. My father went crazy after she died. I have to meet her.”

Jaqen stared helplessly, wordlessly - again! - as Aegon stood as if transfixed and made his way over to a lovely girl. He felt his heart thumping, thumping.  Gods, she was so beautiful, made of the same luminous stuff as Aegon, better; a beating heart underneath, fire and ice coursing through her.

He watched with dread as Arya nodded at something Aegon said and smiled coquettishly at him.  She nodded, and Aegon stared at her as if transfixed. 

And to his horror, time slowed as he watched Aegon lead her across the room and over to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew that was A LOT of things happening. Did you like it??? 
> 
> Lengthy author's notes:  
> \- If you get a minute, google Ashgabat. It's insane looking, amazing. I was transfixed when I did location research for the story. 
> 
> \- Some references to the previous story in this chap wrt Lyanna. Next chap expect a little flashbackery. (if you're interested, the full Lyanna story - it's not much - is buried in ch 8 of superior.)
> 
> \- Oh, and.....next chap shit gets real.


	19. Rusalka

 

 

She didn't really pay attention as she walked from the hotel.  She’d never seen Limassol and normally each building, each curve of an unknown pathway would intrigue her...but then again, she wasn't here for pleasure.

 

Purpose drove her here, the muscles and tendons of her legs no longer propelling her to march forward, forward, forward, but purpose alone, pulling like puppet strings to her destination.  

Purpose - an end goal. Figure out all of this, understand the why of all of it.

See for herself.

 

Purpose made her footsteps even and strong, like a drumbeat on the pavement. Purpose gave her voice strength as she said hello to the hostess that greeted her, purpose kept her chin held high until she was guided to a chair and offered a menu.

And then once she sat down, all of her purpose tumbled out of her, a glass spilling, and she found herself questioning why she had even come.

The feeling was disbelief, more than anything. When he’d left he’d been fine, _just fine,_ thank you very much.  No hint of any of this, of the deception. No hint that he’d sever himself from her, the feeling of it as sharp as any knife that they’d wielded in their former life.

_Their former life._

She wondered if he missed it, wondered if he’d given it all away for her, and now he regretted it. She felt a twinge of guilt; she’d been in and out of New York finishing her work for weeks, rushing in and out of the house, no time to linger with him. Had she missed something?

Maybe that’s why this all happened. _Well, if that was the case he could tell her so much._

She felt the emotions start to well up and summoned Thalia, cool, calm, collected Thalia; in Thalia’s voice she ordered a glass of wine, in Thalia’s mindset she put the cool rim of the glass up to her mouth and tasted the tannic ripeness of it push against her tongue, roll down her throat.

When she looked back up she tensed.

He was here. He was here.  Not thirty feet away from her, flesh and bones and blood and he was right there...

 _Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen!_ All of her cells strained towards him, she absorbed the vision of him, felt herself shiver; god! Her body responded viscerally. Her fucking love, her fucking lover, how she wanted to run to him, forget that any of this had ever happened….

 

but it had, oh it had, and he was in front of her but not beside her

and the sadness of it draped over her, extinguishing the lightness she felt.

She stopped herself from moving towards him and flicked her eyes back down, and then up again to quickly scan him and his...target.

The two men were leaning in close together. Jaqen looked...defeated, submissive; the tilt of his head told her he was tired. He was looking down and then up again at his target, a small flash in his eyes as the other man leaned in towards him, laughing.

Arya narrowed her eyes against the blackness, the redness starting to starting to hiss out of her.

That other man.  He was fixated on Jaqen, he was pale and lean and his hair glowed strangely white against the youth of his skin.  He was handsome, or pretty, as well; Arya realized that one of the feelings rising up her throat was jealousy, and as it rose it brought her blood up as well.

She started to spiral into the anger and then pulled herself out.

_Calm as still water._

Thalia.

She clutched the name to her like a talisman protecting her from her worst demons.

And then in horror she looked up again and saw that the other man was fixating on her, that his eyes had opened widely, as if he knew her. He stared, stared at her, so intently that she saw his brow furrow from across the room before she looked down and then up to see him again, still staring, a small part of her brain registering his features, strangely beautiful.. _.what was he doing?  Did she know him?_ Her thoughts raced to remember him...but he there was no memory, she’d never seen him before.

Jaqen hadn’t yet seen her; jealousy burned again as she saw Jaqen fingertip his arm, those fingers that had tracked and traced over her skin a thousand times.

And then the man got up, moving towards her as if gravity was pushing him.

His mouth was slightly open and his eyes had a strange reverence in them, almost glazed over as he walked to her. Jaqen was left at the table: he saw her, his face wore shock for a moment and then pulled back into its mask. 

Who the fuck is _this_ man?

 

_Thalia, Thalia, time to become._

 

He approached her as if she was a goddess, supplicant, hesitant. And as he moved closer to her she ran scenarios through her mind. _How to reply. How to reply._ Varys’ warning not to interfere in Jaqen’s mission tumbled through her mind..but surely Varys had not anticipated _this._ There was no mistaking that he was coming for her. As he grew closer she could see the strange beauty of him, his steps light and swift. She saw how he moved, quickly and lithely, but without the lazy languidity that Jaqen had; as he drew closer she met his eyes and willed Thalia, please, to come.

He came within a few feet of her and stood like a statue, just for a moment, assessing her, and then his face broke into a radiant smile like a too-bright ray of sunshine, washing out your vision.

“Do I know you?”  She met him with a cool voice, Thalia’s understated Britishness, not so standoffish to be rude, but terribly close.

“I’m so sorry. But you’re the exact image of a woman...you’re exactly, exactly like a woman that’s a ghost in my past. I’m so sorry. But I have to talk to you. Join us?”

He was insistent, he had asked with the tiniest bit of shyness but the implication was clear, commanding - come with me.  

Arya panicked.

And then she allowed Thalia to take over.   _Is this what Jaqen had done?_

She looked up at him and smiled coquettishly. His eyes weren’t blue, they weren’t indigo, even, they were a strange violet, purple like the crocuses that would poke through the snow bravely and tell her that spring was coming, valiantly standing on sturdy stalks even as the white engulfed them.   

There was a magnetism to him, and for a moment she felt compelled by the strange mix of man, woman, boy and ruler that he seemed to embody.

“With an introduction like that, how can I say no?” She gave him a smile, a polite smile, and let her eyes show a bit of wariness but fluttered up at him all the same. Butterfly in a cage.  And as her heart pounded in the cage of her body she walked beside him, his eyes still transfixed on her, to the table where Jaqen was sitting as if he’d been stunned.

\--

 

As she walked up she saw Jaqen catch himself, over and over, catch himself and compose himself but she could not keep his eyes. It would break her, she’d sob and run.  No, no, no.  Thalia. Save me.

The man sat her next to Jaqen, and she shifted as she smelled him, familiar him and something else, a bitter tree blooming.  She nodded at him, staring down at her plate and then looking up to the pale man, who was straightening the papers that had been strewn over the table. 

“You...you are radiant. I’m so sorry. My name is Aegon Targaryen. This is..this is Anton, Anton Zurali.”

There was an unnerving depth of curiosity in the pale man’s eyes as he stared at her, as if she was some type of creature that he’d never seen before. There was something else, too, an imperiousness.  He settled back to look at her and raised his chin.  Arya could see the slight shadow under his jaw, could see fine white stubble on his face, almost translucent, like fishing wire.  He was unnerving and for a second Arya thought of David Bowie, a young David Bowie, another Ziggy Stardust, and she halfway gaped at him herself.

And then she found she could not hold his gaze, piercing and probing her, assessing her, and that Jaqen next to her...well, she didn’t know whether to slice him with the dagger that she had, out of habit when traveling, strapped to her thigh or to engulf his mouth. His presence near her was terribly confusing.

 _She had to do something._ “Well. Aegon.”She nodded to him. And then she looked up at Jaqen, terribly aware of how close she was to him and the fury rose all over again and covered the strangeness of it all.  

“And you’re Anton.” She smirked at him, but she could feel herself stiffen; her eyes felt like chips of coal in her head, her hands felt like steel. “Aegon and Anton, how delightful.” She smiled viciously - leading the game would be so much better than sitting next to Jaqen slowly melting into a puddle.

Jaqen nodded at her with an inscrutable look in his eyes and took her hand, bending the metal feeling of it until his lips brushed against the top of her hand, resting on the tendons.

His lips, pressing against the flat of her hand, and he held them there and met her eyes.And she felt it, she felt him, a jolt of electricity through her as she kept the gaze, the golden green of them trained on her, story after story behind them.

The smile dropped from her face.

She turned to look at Aegon

“Well, since you’ve pulled me from my reverie across the room, now you’re going to have to tell me about this woman. And I’ve never met anyone like that before - I’m not sure if you often drag your prey across the floor?”  She laughed, tartly, in Thalia’s accent, Thalia’s acerbic humor...that happily matched Arya Stark’s at the moment.

She smirked and held up her wine glass, only looking at Aegon but feeling Jaqen - no, Anton, she must not forget - Anton staring at her.  She nodded to Aegon.

“And my name? Surely you were going to ask for that?” She laughed again, her arm and wrist angled in front of him.  “Thalia. Thalia Grey. I’ve escaped London.”

She looked at Jaqen, finally, and repeated her name, finally looking into his eyes, trying not to hiss her words.  “Thalia. _Charmed, I’m sure.”_

The mindfuckery of it was too much. Fuck. Fuck. She watched a wanting come over him, his whole face soften, his eyes worried, and then his voice infiltrated her, the first time she had heard it rumble from his throat in ages. She melted, just a little.

“The pleasure is mine.”

 

\---

 

 

Nothing could have shocked a man more than looking up to see his lovely girl, sitting so close to him.  Nothing, that is, except his target fixating on her and bringing her over to the table.

A man had forgotten that this one had actually known Lyanna - even though she was murdered when he was still a boy.  He pushed the question out of his head - _did a girl remember Lyanna as well?  Or was she too young?_ \- as he saw her walk up to him.  

He had to pull back from embracing her, she was wrapped in some plum colored silk and it made her skin look as if she’d been dipped in the nacre of a thousand pearls, luminescent. She’d darkened her eyes and lips and she was transfixing.  

Furious with him, furious...he could see it roll off of her and he wanted to vomit from the feeling of it, the fact that he had done this to her.

Jaqen had swallowed his guilt, mouthful after mouthful, as Aegon led her to the table and sat her right next to him, so close he could have touched her, so close he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his pupils constrict.  

And now his fierce girl, oh if only she would keep him, his fierce girl had pulled a smile, a different one, introduced herself as a young Brit, and then mockingly challenged Aegon to tell her about the woman that she embodied for him.  

_And she didn’t know how right she was, barbing Aegon about dragging his prey across the floor._

Or perhaps a lovely girl did. He watched her take in Aegon’s entire being, watched her assess him and react to him.  It was hard not to.  The two of them together were like the moon and a comet; her beautiful moon keeping him drawn. The comet briefly flying by, spending itself but still moving.

The comet was beautiful but insignificant and the moon, the moon was eternal.

 

Agony.

 

He joined her gentle teasing to deflect himself from the emotions before he picked her up and carried her out the door so that he could supplicate at her feet.  That would not do. And her name...she understood. She was playing the game with him, she was no one right now. The smallest bit of relief.

He nodded and gently smirked at her conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow at Aegon.

“Absolutely, Aegon. Miss...Grey...is right.  Now we must hear who is this woman. This ghost from your past. You Russians are hopelessly superstitious. Let’s hear it.”

Aegon leaned back, erect like a sphynx. His face softened at the sight of both of them sitting across from him, rapt.  

Jaqen could not help but see the smile that greedily played across Aegon’s face before he started to speak, that it went from himself to Arya and widened.  

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd promised a Lyanna flashback, and then as I was writing I realized that my favorite was in Cersei's POV from the last story...and that wouldn't make sense in the story. 
> 
> It does however make a perfectly acceptable author's note though. : ) hope this is helpful for some lyanna background. 
> 
> \--
> 
>  _Starks._ Cersei hated them. They were almost gone.
> 
> Robert had called her Lyanna, at first. _Lyanna!_ As if she was anything like that coarse woman. It had been enough to set Cersei on edge. His touch was already unbearable. And then to call her _that_ name...
> 
> It was with greatest satisfaction that she’d seen the fruits of her labor, seen Robert with his eyes red, trying to hide his sorrow. That fucking idiot. Mourning over Lyanna. Lyanna had left him anyhow, and still he cried, his big stupid blue eyes squeezing out fat tears.
> 
> Cersei’s _first_ accomplishment.
> 
> Until fucking Ned, that self-righteous fuck, had turned up in Moscow and made her life a living hell for the next fifteen years. First shipments, disrupted; she’d had to go underground and then scrabble for more money. It was a fucking stroke of genius to get Robert to grovel for it from Ned. Fucking moron didn’t even realize what he had paid for - restarting the business that Ned himself had wrecked. _Guns were expensive. Good thing those lives were so cheap._  
> 
> She relished the thought of Ned’s superiority, him unwittingly paying for something he hated so much. Mourning for his sister, and yet handing money over to Cersei after she’d made sure that Lyanna was found absolutely _smeared_ on Moscow sidewalks.
> 
>  _Moron._ Ned looked all over for her killer and didn’t even know it was her. It was almost all she could do to not laugh in his face, even as Robert dragged her to visit that fetid little shack of Ned’s out in the middle of nowhere.  


	20. Rusalka pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rereading the last chapter I realized what a nothing it was...sorry about that! I was obsessive thinking about how twisty it would feel to be either of them in that situation. here's something more than just "holy shit this is weird."
> 
> maybe not much...but hey!

 

Aegon kept the smile on his face, a possessive smile, as he looked back and forth at the two of them in front of him.  He motioned to the faceless, noiseless waiter for another bottle and then leaned in.

“Ah, yes, we _are_ superstitious. It is in our bones, in Russia. But I think it's very much human nature to want to capture, want to keep a ghost from your past, no? If you see it walking right past you, you can’t let the opportunity go, correct?  So, Thalia Grey, I apologize for pulling you from your reverie.”  He smiled even further and looked only at her and she felt the spotlight of his attention searing over her.

“But yes, I had to. And this...this is not typically how I would greet a beautiful woman  But you are something else, and I could not help myself.”

Arya could not escape the strangeness of the situation but she swallowed the last in her glass and held it to Aegon to fill again.  

“So then, tell me.”

“This is heavy conversation for a first encounter, no? So much the better, I think. Very well. Let’s just say I grew up under your gaze. I watched my father waste into nothing mourning you. I lived in a house with room after room dedicated to your memory. I already know you from legends whispered through our servants.  So when I see you in front of me, I must….I had to take you.”

Arya was transfixed, confused...what is he talking about?

“I don’t follow you…” She stopped herself from looking over at Jaqen - _Anton! She must remember_ \- and instead kept her gaze on Aegon.

He laughed, a sharp thing. “Of course it is not you, exactly, that looked over me. It was my father’s second wife, married in secret and the obsession of his life, she is the one guarding me, or cursing me. My father would have plucked the moon from the sky for her.  She was murdered quite brutally and he never recovered from it, descending into a madness and despondency that took his spirit from him long before he conjured up the will to kill himself.”

Arya started to murmur sympathies but he waved them away, long white fingers carving the air in front of her and his eyes flashed again as he looked at her and then quickly at Jaqen next to her. She looked at his mouth, his entire face; he was beautiful, he was like an unholy thing, he looked like mercury ran through his veins, a strange sheen to him.

“You are exactly her image come to life. Every line of your face. Exactly. You can understand, no, why after a lifetime of worshipping her spirit, how that would drive me to you, no?”

“Of course. How strange.” _What the fuck._ Arya could not think of how to drive the conversation and she shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under his eye.

Jaqen picked up on it and he leaned back in his chair. “Does your ghost have a name?”

Aegon smiled again and he looked at Arya wistfully, through a haze of memory.  

“Lyanna Stark.”

 

\--

 

 

Very well. It was difficult not to smooth a girls hair, not to take her in his arms to comfort her as she heard the same drop from Aegon’s lips. Now a girl might understand why a man had felt so compelled to take this duty from Varys.

A man had forgotten that Aegon walked the earth as a child while Lyanna lived, but he had known how entangled Aegon was in a girl’s family.

Aegon was a key, a key to many things, should he be so swayed; his family had carried power in Russia for generations and he himself could be the undoing of the Russian president, should he decide to break from him.  

Assuming that an even more nefarious power did not arise in the hidden tangle of Russian oligarchs to assume power, he could potentially end much of the insurgent nationalist powers that had reached their fingertips through Russian operatives to destabilize the west, to install autocrats in what had been reliable democracies. He could end it; Varys had looked at data points across the country to assess who would end up in power should the current president be deposed.

Study after study, village to cosmopolitan centers, all of them pointing at the Targaryen name as a possibility to succeed the current president.

Of course the Targaryen would not be allowed to do so. The President would make sure of it. Still, the actions of one - and then the death of him, the last known Targaryen - there was another Targaryan woman that had not been seen in decades - the death of the Targaryen  would ricochet through the country. It would be the last straw.

Russia had grown more and more bold in the past five years; after executing one of their greatest objectives by throwing the election for their preferred candidate in America, they’d moved to try to do the same throughout Europe and sowed unrest through the Middle East. The current president had far too much power.  

The name Lyanna Stark made it personal for a man. The scale of it, the possible outcome made it a necessity, a test for him. To see if he was still able to summon what had been within him, to become no one, to do his work again.

He did not want to admit it, but to deny it was a lie - he had taken more pleasure than he thought he would from this job.  And how to square that with the overwhelming force of love for a girl, the wave of guilt over himself...that was something else, entirely.

 

 

 

\--

“Lyanna Stark.”

The words jolted her. Of course, of course...the bits and pieces she’d remembered about Lyanna’s death...Targaryen...

Arya looked at Aegon, marvelling. “That’s so tragic,” she said, “and slightly creepy.” She smiled. “I can assure you that I haven’t been watching over you. They do say that everyone has their doppelganger, however.  Perhaps this Lyanna is mine.”

_Perhaps indeed.  When she was a small child Robert Baratheon had stared at her so intently that Ned had to tell him to stop.  And now this, this._

Aegon laughed. “There’s no question in my mind.”

Arya’s mind was flying in the face of this new information and she participated in the small talk that followed with great effort.   _Yes, London.  A barrister, actually; I’ve just had a great success, wanted to get away from London for a bit so I’m on an extended holiday.  No, by myself.  Turkmenistan? Amazing._  

 

Lyanna, Lyanna Stark. _Holy shit_. She needed to make sure that Varys had scrubbed her own identity online, so that Arya Stark could not be traced.

 

Is this why Jaqen had taken this job? _It must be._

She needed more information, needed to talk to him. Now. Before she exploded. 

Inside of her mind she was about ready to boil, all of it too much, too much Jaqen next to her; she wanted to strangle him, torture him, she wanted to curl up in him, fuck him.  And Aegon...so hard to pin down, quick, fluid. She needed a minute.  As if it agreed with her, a phone rang next to Aegon on the table.  He looked at it and frowned and stood up from the table, walking out to the deck overlooking the sea.

She turned to Jaqen, furious.  “What the actual fuck are you doing?  And why haven’t you called me?”

“Arya, Arya. There are ears everywhere.” Jaqen hummed to bring her voice down, that resonant hum that she’d missed so much; she could feel it even in her anger.

He looked at her with the most sorrowful look she had seen.  “A man is so sorry. I can not tell you why I didn’t call; I wanted this to be done, did not want to call you until I was finished.”

“Because you were fucking cheating on me?” The words hissed out of her mouth. "Is _that_ why?"

Jaqen quickly scanned the room to make sure that Aegon was still a safe distance away.  “Arya. There are a lot of things tangled with this man, can you not see?  Your family, Russian interference in the levers of power...I did not realize how tangled I _myself_ would become.”

He sighed and Arya saw tears brimming from the rim of his eyes and she fought to keep the same from her own.

“Arya, a man loves you beyond everything. Can we please, please wait until we can talk, just for a few minutes, without the spectre of this Aegon in front of us?”

Arya nodded bitterly.  “Did you like it? I assume you slept with him. You smell like it. Did you like it?”

Jaqen bowed his head.  “Arya.” he whispered fervently. “Arya. You are my love, my everything.  Everything.  This...this is nothing, this is a duty, this is something that I took too far. A man cannot apologize enough. You must believe me. _Arya._ ”

She looked up, suddenly; Aegon was walking back to the table. His face wore an expression that neither of them could divine, and he sat silently for a moment before he set the phone down.

“Anton. We’re going to have to have our discussion another time.  I’ll take these documents now and have them looked at by my lawyers.  I need to leave.”

Jaqen raised an eyebrow next to her and for the slightest moment Arya died, died _\- had she messed up this target?_

Aegon kept talking.  “Thalia.  No, it wasn’t you looking over me in my childhood.  However, I think you’d find it very interesting to see exactly _why_ I was so struck by you.”

The imperiousness of him emerged again, and he raised his chin to regard them both.

“Thalia, this is going to sound absurd, but I do hope you’ll consider it.  I have to leave for Moscow immediately. I have a jet on an airstrip outside of Limassol. Would you like to come to Moscow with me for a few days?”

Her mouth opened and closed.

_Fuck…she had to salvage this...fuck...fuck…._

“What about your lover, here?  He’s quite amusing.”  Thalia looked at Aegon and raised her eyebrow.

_Gods please say yes, do not fling me into this without Jaqen, even if it’s the last time that we’re together, I am not done with this conversation..._

Aegon chuckled and he reached a hand over to Jaqen’s.  “My lover? That’s a bit of a stretch  - I’ve only just met him - but isn’t he just...delicious?  We’ll have to be quite discreet, Anton, given the nature of your business, but I’m sure that we can get you into Moscow without too much attention.  Yes, come with me...both of you.  Just for a few days.”

Thalia smiled.  “This is not at all how I imagined my holiday - but who says no to such an offer? On your private jet? Promise me you’ll get me back here all in one piece.”

Aegon’s eyes burned her own, again that strange insanity of him, seesawing from thought to thought.  “It’s settled then. Tell me where you’re staying; I’ll have a car sent round for you by midnight and we’ll fly tonight. There are sleeping quarters on the jet. I have a few hours of business tomorrow and the next day, but otherwise I think you’ll quite enjoy the Targaryen family home.”

 

He smiled again and the edges of his teeth were platinum in the candlelight.  “I’ll enjoy having you, both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> creepyshippers I haven't forgotten you. sansa on deck.


	21. grimace

She fallen asleep, half upright and with Willas’ head in her hands; sometime midway through the night she woke up and stretched her stiff limbs, whispering to Willas to get up.  He followed her with soft footsteps down the hall and when he fell asleep, stretched out, she searched for the edges of the bed to have her own space and slept fitfully on the narrows between the edge and Willas’ outstretched hand, reaching for her in sleep.

She woke when he did; his movements in the bed made her eyes flutter open and he pulled her to him and brushed up against her cheek with his lips.  They felt strange against her skin; the wrong shape, the wrong smell.   

Sansa closed her eyes against all of it and just kept her face against his and hoped that the charade would end, and soon.

She had made her decision and now it dragged against her like the tip of a knife.   _Time to go. Time to go._

His behavior that day was atypical; again. Willas usually left the house in the morning; even though he had just gotten back from Georgia she assumed he be right back at the office.  Instead he lurked in the kitchen, reading and rereading the same page of the newspaper, his eyes not seeing anything.

He’d always been serious but never somber and Sansa wondered where the line was between his grief for Olenna and for their marriage. Surely he couldn’t be this blind. Surely.  

 

She subsisted on little texts here and there, each vibration of her phone a little tingle that she kept secret; her own and no one else’s.  When she was finally able to steal away and call Petyr, almost giddy at the opportunity, he seemed strangely unruffled by the wait.

“Sansa, sweetling.  You’ll get what’s yours from Willas, and none of this can happen before its time,” he murmured to placate her.

“How can you be so...patient?”  Sansa felt like she was being dragged through brambles, every minute unbearable, and she clutched the phone more tightly.

He cleared his throat and Sansa could hear the slight brogue in his voice, a holdover from his childhood.  Petyr had been born in Ireland, and was only brought to America by a friend of the family’s, a friend of Catelyn’s family, actually, when he was a small boy with only a sneaking expression on his face, always gambling for too much and slinking away when he’d lose.

He became authoritative. “It’s a risk, alright. Sansa. Always keep your foes confused. If they don’t know who you are, or what you want, they won’t know what you plan to do next.”

The guilt crept in. “Petyr...Willas is not my foe. He’s...he’s in the way, is all. It’s just hard to be patient.”  

She closed her eyes so that she could see his face in her imagination, trace the dimples, look into his eyes.

His voice thickened into a whisper. “I’d risk everything to get what I want.”  

She smiled, still pressing her eyes tightly against the sound of his voice. “And what do you want?”

Petyr sounded fierce and she felt herself tremor, a rush of wet between her legs.

“Everything,” he said.

 

 

She felt quite outside of herself and tried to immerse herself in work, social events, the like to see if she could recapture the spark from them, at least.

She saw Margaery at a board meeting and cringed; too late. With every step that drew her closer to Sansa, Margaery’s golden brown hair bounced and her smile stretched wider, even as Sansa could see her sadness.

Margaery was twisted right now with greed and grief and nothing was natural, not even the careful smile that she tried to project at Sansa, some animalistic grimace, some ritual to try to establish dominance.

“Sansa. How is Willas? He seemed really upset when he left Highgarden. We still had a lot left to untangle.”

Sansa couldn’t help but hear all of the layers of Margaery’s words, every single one of them.  She pulled her own armor out.

“Really? I thought that you and Loras had figured everything out?” She made sure that the smile that she gave Margaery, the concerned, polite smile, lined with barbed wire, found its mark.

It did and Margaery stiffened slightly, the doe eyes widening. She nodded her head and walked towards the conference table, pulling out a seat.  Sansa sat on the opposite side, further down. Time to work.

It was good to be at work, it was refreshing to get outside of her head. She watched Margaery light up as well, talking about an initiative that she wanted to start.  Sansa calculated the numbers in her head as Margaery spoke and then gave her support; it was strategic. Margaery’s contributions always were.

Sansa felt better and the edge of her irritation had started to crack, bit by bit.

After the meeting she nodded to Margaery and then was stopped by one hand, reaching out, and a small hug given.

They were both worn out; the meeting had lasted for over two hours.  She murmured her goodbyes to Margaery.  “All, the best Margaery, I know this is difficult in many ways.”

Margaery wrinkled up her nose and pushed the unpleasant thought away. “Ah, we knew it would be a difficult time, that’s for sure.  For all of us. Poor Grandmother. And now there’s all the rest of this, the doctors, the coroner…it’ll just never end.”  Margaery’s voice trailed at the word coroner and Sansa felt shamed all over again.   _Yes, that._

 _You’ve lost your common decency,_ she chided herself.

Sansa stood very still for a moment, and when she looked up her face was devoid of any mask.  “I’m sorry, Margaery, that you’re going to have to bury her twice.”

Sansa knew how that felt. Ned and Catelyn and Rickon had died not once but twice for Sansa.  They had presumed their death an accident, sailboat on Lake Superior caught in a storm. On the windblown hill at Winterfell the Stark children stiffened their chins and mourned. And later they had suffered through an agonizing series of pilgrimages out to the morgue as evidence of their murder was dredged up from the frigid limestone floor of the lake.

And she and Arya had buried them again, and grieved them again, and avenged them and grieved once more.

 

Margaery’s eyes always looked limpid, translucent green-blue irises rising against the delicate lightest brown hair. Now those eyes welled over.  She grasped Sansa’s shoulder and mouthed a kiss toward her cheek, and then made her way out of the room as quickly as she could.

Sansa watched her leave silently.  When her last footfalls had echoed from the tile foyer of the building, bounced off of the desks and foliage, Sansa picked her way out of the building, clutching her purse tightly to her.

 

\--

 

Her phone started to buzz. He knew what time she was supposed to be finished. _He was waiting._

She had finally carved out some time for him. Just a second.

 

He might be able to be patient, but she could not. She’d take just a moment, just a moment with him before she’d make her way home to have dinner with her husband.

She walked toward her own house, just in case, and then started to wend her way to him, block by block, each step becoming lighter. By the time she had made it to the L station that would take her to Petyr’s she had felt the tiredness lift off of her, felt the confusing weight, all of the guilt of each of the Tyrells dissipate.

She couldn’t stop bouncing on her toes while she was on the L, pushing her way through the crowd when she was able to disembark and almost ran to his building.

She didn’t have much time. The closer she got the more her heart thudded.

Before she had lifted her hand the door opened. His face split into a crooked grin and her eyes registered the cleft of dimples on his face before her eyes closed and her mouth moved towards his. 

He met her, the force of his mouth on hers held in check by one hand winding into her hair, a sharp pain as he pulled on it to press her more tightly against him. The taste, the taste of him, the shocking pull of his lips on hers, claiming her mouth...oh she had waited.

She had waited for all of a few days..some rational other part of herself thought.. yet it still felt interminably long. Painful. He broke from her and nibbled quickly at her lips before pulling her out of the doorway and into his flat and then slamming her against the wall.

“Sansa Sansa….” his voice rumbled through her, it broke through and she kissed him even harder, trying to get at the core of him.

She kept her tongue to his as she was frantically pulling down her skirt, her finger ripping through the lace waistband and she felt her own fingernail glance against her skin and drag raggedly down the skin of her thigh.  His other hand reached down and yanked and soon her panties were crumpled in a damp pile at the base of her heels and she stepped out of them completely.

Oh to come from nothing, from the blank desert of her days with Willas to this, it was too much, too much…

He pushed her harder against the wall and she felt the cold of the drywall against her ass and he pressed all the way up against her, his cock mercifully close, torturously close, and she hummed to move her fingers against the zipper restraining him, lifting one leg to wrap around his waist, feeling him lean in against her fingers and clumsily stroking what she could feel as she fiddled with his pants.

The heat, hard in her fingers now. Relief. 

She gripped him with one hand, the vein on the underbelly of his cock a rigid line, her finger moving up to the ridge and stroking the cleft of him before she pulled him, hard, close to her wetness.

He needed nothing further and plunged into her, one hand still grasping at her hair, one hand wrapped around a cheek of her ass, the fingers working into her sphincter to meet his cock  inside of her. 

He was filling her, gods, oh gods...furiously pumping into her and she didn’t care that she was banging up against the wall, that she hadn’t heard his voice yet.  She felt herself start to crest; he was using her, filling her up and she would just take it, all of it, it fit so perfectly… 

And his hand yanked her head back unexpectedly just as he thrust even deeper into her. Her eyes opened slightly to see his face, greedily looking at her. He panted her name.

“Sansaaaa….” 

She couldn’t see straight, couldn’t feel anything, just the base of his cock grinding into her and the rough fingers pulling her hair and as she started to speak she let each word out as he delivered another merciless thrust of himself into her.

“Tell...me...what...you...want….”

He grunted and she tightened on him as he answered. “Everything.”

 And then he gave her the final thrust, pushing her up against the wall, her foot dangling in the air and the other leg wrapped so tightly around him, a vine clinging.

 “Everything.” He whispered as he started to come down and he carried her, legs clinging around him, over to the table top and set her out as if she was his next course, as well.

He leaned over her at the table and her heart started to slow down to normal, the rabbit thumping of it calming.  She reached her hands up to his face and smiled.

 “Petyr. It’s so hard to wait for you, for this. I can’t. I just can’t.”  She knew she had to leave in a moment, knew she had to leave and all she wanted was to curl up with him, trace the lines of his face with one fingertip.

He braced himself with both hands on the table’s edge and leaned down to kiss her, more tenderly this time: the demon had been exorcised, for now.

“Sweetling. You have to wait. Nothing would please me more than taking you away right now, but everything is happening just according to plan.”

 

Later that night when she had made it home and given Willas a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before escaping to the shower and standing under the steam did she wonder, over and over again, what exactly his words meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little chapterling posted in the hopes that it breaks my writers block. Plus, it's sansa time.


	22. wildling funeral

Jon had never seen Ygritte’s face, usually so quick and full of life, turn to stone. 

 

It was stone now, as she motioned for Jon to help her pull her father’s body to the travois, the little sled made in the fashion of the Odawa, birch branches and rawhide.  Stone as she washed his face and chest off, stone as she crossed his arms and moved his head into repose.  And stone as she pulled various baubles, little wood carvings, from inside the clutter of the house and into the pocket of his shirt, resting his hand over it.  Her final act was to pull a great length of cloth, strangely flowered - “my mother’s,” she’d muttered, and wrapped him in it. 

Her cheekbones had solidified to granite, her blue eyes to aventurine chips and she stood soundlessly, silently, a statue in front of his body. 

Jon dare not disturb her, lest she turn to sand and blow away. 

He couldn’t help but stare at the body, the scars all over him, a savaged ribcage, the rude exit of the bullet blaring red over the old man’s body, still muscular and tipped in white hairs.

When she stood up, water seeping down her face, she went into the cabin and came out with her pack bulging, pulling the zipper with a curious metallic sound in all of that leafy, quiet green. She walked back to the travois, grim, determined, and gestured over to a hollow some ways beyond her father’s compound. 

Jon spoke and his voice felt like he hadn’t used it in decades. “Ygritte. We need to call someone. Call the police, call someone.”

Suddenly the stone melted away and she was suddenly alive again, the sparks in her eye made more frightful by her grief. “You really want to call someone about him?  What are you going to say?  That he was shot by the government? They’ll take you in, they’ll know about us, they’ll find us out. No. we have to take him, burn him in the clearing.”

He put his hands up and cleared his throat, willed his voice to become softer.  “Ygritte. We know these people. Grew up with the Marquette police. We can just call…”

She interrupted him. 

“We’re not calling anyone, least of which is the police.  No.”  She picked up the poles of the travois and started down the hill, leaning forward to better bear the load.

He moved to meet her and grabbed one of the poles.  They trudged in silence for a time. The whine of the drones was long gone, there was no interruption in the forest noises.  Jon realized that the hollow that he was carrying Ygritte’s father, like some curious pallbearer, was just a small field with a big stone outcropping in the middle; the edges were ringed with pine trees and a hill guarded it from too much wind.  The sun dappled in through the pine needles and played off of the pale grey rock.

And strange, large stones all around, placed rather than found. 

He realized; it was where her family was buried, all of them. 

Ygritte, wildling, born of a long line of distrustful and secretive rebels, wanting nothing to do with anyone in life and certainly not in death. 

They maneuvered the travois to the base of the stone and then Ygritte motioned for him to help her lift it.  Wiry bastard, Jon thought, he’s just a feather, just like Ygritte.

She stood at looked anew at the body, and then reached into her pack. She pulled out a jar of a green gooey substance and used a branch on the ground to daub it over his body, kissing his lips before she daubed it behind his head. 

Jon started.  “What is that?”

She scoffed. “Wildfire, Jon.”

“You’re going to burn him?” Jon was shocked. “Babe, they’ll see the smoke...you know they’re not far.”

Ygritte still looked fierce and she whirled to him; the only thing belying her sadness was a rim of wet around her eyes. 

“Jon. We have to. That’s the only way, that’s the way our family always has done it.”

“They’ll find us, Ygritte, the smoke….” He stood helpless. He couldn’t stop her. Not in this. 

Shaking her head she continued and her voice broke.

“The wildfire will finish him before they can find us. Besides, this is what we do with our kin. it’s the only way to make sure that he’s never cold again.”

She pushed him out of the way and lit a match and placed it near his heart, moving her hand quickly away from the fire that seemed to emit like a blowtorch once it found the wildfire to feed it. 

They backed up and Jon flicked his eyes to her, watching her face mourn and listening to her sing softly, a strange language, a foreign melody, the boughs of the pines above reacting to the wafting heat.

He looked away when he could no longer discern a body in the fire, when the flames were thick enough to conceal the limbs and dreams and thoughts and all that the man once was. 

 

\---

 

 

 

Melisandre stewed in Cyprus, following him; she watched as that man joined him here and there.  A twinge when she saw them from the windows of the tower near Aegon’s office, just a wisp of Aegon’s flesh through the faceted light of the windows, the rapture on the man’s face. 

Pity. He had been one of her favorite targets. 

She’d tried to call him once, while she was watching him; she saw him look at the phone and put it back in his pocket unanswered and she knew.   _ She knew.  _

Another feeling, the scorn of rejection, a flare of anger. 

It wasn’t a familiar feeling. She was not used to this; usually her targets were easy, falling over themselves to fuck her. But she knew better than to push him. Grimly she ran through the words she would tell her superiors. 

They had a backup plan, they always did. They’d just never had to use it for  _ her _ . 

The disappointment in her superior’s voice hurt, a failing in herself, pride wounded. 

That man, that man had caused it...he would suffer, just as she would for failing her mission.

Her superior had made arrangements and summoned Aegon back to Moscow. Melisandre would follow him; even though she had nothing left to do on this assignment per se, now she’d be watching him for pleasure. 

She smiled, wryly, when she saw the communique come through: a meeting with the council of natural resources - well played. Aegon was naturally interested in that, given the Targaryen mining empire and his studies.  And a lunch, with the minister of finance, to play to his vanity. The minister of finance only took time out for the most relevant pillars of Russian society.

He’d be able to talk about Targaryen interests.  And then he’d be grilled, grilled on the payments that he’d received to continue the unweaving of the European Union, country by country, that he had yet to put into practice. 

 

If he was lucky perhaps he’d be allowed to pay back the money, with interest. Lord knows he had it. 

If he was unlucky he’d be made an example of. 

She knew his jet was being prepared, fueled, and cleaned; her contact at the airstrip was very useful. And she was ready for him, waiting in the shadows to watch him outside of his city flat, her driver alert, when he stepped into his own car and drove off. 

Strangely not towards the airstrip. 

Melisandre clutched the ruby around her neck as the driver followed his car. 

_ What is he up to.   _

He stopped at hotel and walked to the entry. A few minutes later he emerged, carrying a suitcase like some common bellhop. A woman walked out with him.  _ A woman!  _

Melisandre felt her fingernails burn into her palm.

The Targaryen appetites were known, and so his desire for that man was not so, so surprising. Disappointing, yes. But a woman! And this one! She was small and pale and in the darkness Melisandre could barely see her features.  

The light and shadows played on her skin and then the car door closed and Melisandre exhaled, feeling a burning rage.  To be cast aside...for that woman!

As the car pulled out and Melisandre’s car purred behind it, she leaned back into the leather seat and felt a hot surge of acid rise up her throat.

When she opened her eyes again they were clear and she had calmed herself.  It would be done.

 

\--

 

 

She was buzzed at the hotel and stiffened her shoulders. 

The anger at Jaqen had not dissipated; it merely moved to the background, to simmer with the other feelings that she felt for him. Pleasure at seeing him, the cognizance of safety around him: _ what the fuck was she doing, running off to Russia?  _

She’d have to follow his lead. 

Aegon was fascinating, scary in that she did not know if she could stay one step ahead of him. The connection to Lyanna was too much, too much.

She’d wracked her brain to remember the bits of what she’d known about her aunt.  Lyanna had been her father’s favorite; she’d briefly been involved with Robert Baratheon, of all people, who fell head over heels for her.  Then she’d met Rhaegar Targaryen and just as quickly moved to Moscow.

Her father hadn’t known what to make of Rhaegar - like father, like son, she mused, if he was anything like Aegon.  

Arya swallowed. She did not want to call Jaqen in the brief moment that she had before Aegon fetched her.  She’d deal with all of this afterwards. She was exhausted, almost beyond her ability to stay on her feet; endless travel earlier in the day, the emotional cartwheels of seeing Jaqen.  Now, she had to become, and Thalia carefully arranged a hastily packed suitcase and rubbed a viscous berry color on her lips, frowning at the circles darkening under her eyes.

That’ll do. 

The hotel buzzed her and she opened the door of her room to head to the lobby.  When the elevator opened, Aegon was in it and his energy almost carried him past her before he saw her standing in front of the doors.

His body came to a sudden stop. His face softened and he grabbed both of her hands. 

“You’re coming. You really are coming. I’m so pleased.”

He put a hand to his mouth and she watched his eyes flutter down to her fingers, looked at the sallow light reflecting against his skin, unable to penetrate the creamy luminescence of it; he looked like he was glowing, even in the beige hallway.

He was taller than Jaqen; he was more slim, still muscled but more reedy; he had a compact musculature that reminded Arya quickly of a reptile, spare and quick. His face was beautiful, etherial; he managed to project masculinity even as his features with his stung lips and high cheekbones could have been found on a model.

And here he was, his manner completely awed by her, sneaking glances and smiling down possessively at her. 

When the elevator closed her turned quickly to her, another reptilian movement; he took a fingertip and brushed the edge of her face.  She smiled up at him, summoned Thalia’s cool British voice. 

“I really am coming. You’re a fascinating creature, you know...this is quite out of character for me.” She laughed. “I have great expectations, you know, being whisked away at midnight on a private jet to Moscow.”

He looked earnestly at her and put his other hand on her face and she felt his attention on her as palpably as a bright light, shining in her eyes.  “Anything. Anything you can possibly imagine. It’s yours.”

He leaned down and quickly kissed her forehead, moving back quickly to make sure that he had not overstepped. She smelled him; ozone and skin and a sweet citrus, like the peel of a tangerine.  His presence was singular. She had not met anyone like him. 

No wonder Jaqen had taken this mission, she thought bitterly, and then pushed it out of her mind.  _ Later, later.  _

She had to be in the moment, now.

In the backseat of the car he directed his driver in a few Russian words and she sank against the seat. As if he had sensed Jaqen on her thoughts, he spoke. 

“You don’t mind that Anton joins us?” He sounded worried.

Arya -  _ Thalia! she thought  _ \- smiled. “No, not at all. He’s….”

She trailed off.  _ All of the things that he was to her...what was he to Aegon? _

Her answer came immediately, as if he were completing her thought.

“He’s mesmerizing. I’ve only just met him, as well. We’re doing business, but as you can see he’s quite compelling.”  Aegon’s voice softened, just a bit, and then surged with a childlike joy.

“And now he’s coming with us. And I’m taking you both. I’m..well, it’s beyond words. And here we are.”

Arya looked up. They were not at a hotel; Varys must have gotten him a flat, Arya thought, and for a moment she was shamed by her arrival here.   _ All of the work to create this persona, all of the work to put this deal together, and like a crying teenager she had run out here when her husband didn’t call her back. _

She shook her head. _ In the moment. Be in the moment.  _

The moment came to her, inescapable. There was something about his presence that demanded attention. He leaned in, taking her face once again and kissing her forehead, once again, chastely.  “I’ll be back.”

His smile lit up his face as he moved his mouth, the soft lips away from her forehead, and stepped out of the car just long enough for Arya to exhale.  He opened the door to allow Jaqen - _ no, Anton!  _ \- into the car and then she found herself sitting right next to her husband.

 

\--

Her first instinct was to hug him, her second instinct was to slap him, and somewhere in all of that she mustered the control to smile at him the way that Thalia would, to speak with Thalia’s voice  “So we meet again. In such strange circumstances.  Hello, Anton - so you’re to be my travelling companion for the next few days?”

The honey of his voice engulfed her then, and she looked at the face that she loved so fiercely, every part of it, the slant of his eyelids, the way his cheekbones sloped up, the delicious softness just under his chin.

“What sweet fate is this, to travel with you, Miss Thalia Grey.” He smiled at her and she struggled not to lean into him.

“To Moscow, then!” Anton’s voice rang out in the car and Arya felt her excitement build and fight off the tiredness.  She was between the two of them in the backseat of the car; Aegon’s long legs to one side, his knee brushing against hers; a distance of millimeters between herself and Jaqen, the feeling of it like a magnet, pulling her closer to him. Their energies were so different; the arcing livewire of Aegon, Jaqen’s familiar, sensual earthiness.  

Two elements. 

 

 

 

\--

 

She felt the edges of her tiredness worn away even more by the excitement, by her hypervigilance, and by the time they’d gotten to the airstrip and the plane she was barely alert enough to even register the cool dove grey leather of the interior of the plane, the seating comfortable, a bar to the side and a series of doors in the back. 

She sank into one of the seats and smiled wanly at Aegon as he spoke with Jaqen - Anton! - about the plane.  

Aegon looked over at her as the engine started to roar into life.  He frowned; she could see it, no feel it, through half closed lids. 

“Thalia. You poor thing. You’re exhausted. Do you want to go into the cabin?” He gestured to one of the doors in the back.

“I’d be poor company if I did that, eh? I’m so sorry. I am exhausted. But I am excited.” She murmured..she knew that only the adrenaline was holding her together and she willed it to stay.

He stood up over her and she felt his hands again on her hairline, his fingertips rubbing her temples. Out of slitted eyes she saw Anton’s face change momentarily - jealousy! - a flash on his face before the opaque mask of his persona allowed an interested, slightly suggestive smile to color his mien.

 

_ Oh. _

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

_ Good.  _

 

Aegon’s fingers felt good on her forehead and she sighed despite herself and snuggled in more deeply into the leather seat.  A shadow moved through her vision - her eyes were almost completely closed - and then she felt the warmth of a soft blanket upon her, and then Aegon’s fingertips once more rubbing circles on her temples, moving to stroke her face gently, stroking so softly and slowly that she faded into sleep, the noise of the plane’s engine and the low, rumbling tones of Anton’s voice rumbling through her, the sharp reply of Aegon, their laughing, all of it fading to back as she mercifully, finally drifted. 

 


	23. beauty, sex, life and death

She lay there, like a pearl tucked tightly in the shell’s embrace, every limb pulled closer to her core; he focused on her fingers slackened in sleep. The droning airplane engine acted as lullaby. It was a test of every strength he could muster not to go to her.

Aegon had found her, somehow known her, seen right through a part of her and now a lovely girl was right in the middle of all he had worked for.

He was terrified.

_ Terrified of what he had to do in front of her, terrified of not being able to reach her, terrified of the great show he would put on in front of her eyes, drinking every movement in. _

And terrified of Aegon’s affections, both for a man and for the pale shadow of flesh in front of him. Terrified that even in this mission, where no blood was to be spilled, that something could happen to his lovely girl. 

Terrified to end up in Russia, without protection, only a hasty phone call to Varys to let him know what was happening, and that Arya had come to him.

Varys didn’t sound surprised. But then, he never did. It was difficult enough to decode Varys on a good day. 

And now she lay tucked in a grey blanket and curled up in a massive captain’s chair, her feet folded up against herself, Aegon stationed like a guardian in the seat closest to her head.  His fingers idly moving atop the wispy dark strands that framed her the edges of her face, the curve of her cheekbones, the delicious tender chin.

He felt the jealous burn of one thousand stars each time Aegon’s finger touched her, imagining the friction of Aegon’s long finger dragging against the soft resistance of her skin, unable to read if the soft touches were infused with the gentle reverence Aegon had been treating her with, or if there was a deeper fascination, something unspooling in the other man.

Jaqen would narrowly focus on her face, and want nothing than wrap his arms around her form, so vulnerable while sleeping; to cradle her head in his hands and kiss every inch of it, inhale the smell wafting from the top of her head and nuzzle along the line of her jaw; trace a finger up and down the ridges of her spine, the feeling of the taut. And then his field of vision would widen and he’d see Aegon there as well, beautiful Aegon, glittering like an angel, collateral damage in the game that Varys had arranged, and he’d be struck again by the man’s intensity, drawn to him the way a brand new lover pulls. And then Jaqen would recoil with guilt and try to summon Anton again if only to escape the frenzy in his head. 

Aegon glowed over her, his face almost beatific as he looked at her; he’d smile at Jaqen from time to time with a strange possessive pride at finding the woman beside him; at the start of the flight just as his lovely girl was drifting off into sleep he had faced Jaqen squarely, asking him questions about the pipeline, about the Turkmenistan officials that had been helpful, about the political ramifications of transferring ownership, ostensibly from Anton’s name to his own. His voice rose and fall with the subjects and he’d be in turn thoughtful and then the thoughts would overspill, and the rush of words would tumble out, punctuated by glee, worry and overlaid with the type of commanding suggestiveness that was so hard to ignore. 

At one point Aegon had become excited and walked the length of his jet and then walked back over to him; Aegon had bent over him and pressed his lips against his neck and held them there, the flicker of the man’s tongue against his neck sweeping up under his chin, dragging on the stubble of his neck and then finding and nibbling his lower lip. Jaqen found his mouth open of its own accord, his tongue slipping out into this fascinating new territory and then mercurial Aegon would take his mouth away, and his sleeping girl was just arm’s length away from them. 

 

Mercifully she did not wake.

 

When Aegon sat back down, he placed his finger back on Arya’s brow and beamed over at Jaqen and for a moment the vision of him in his full radiance with Arya immediately next to him was too much.  

_ A man wants to take his wife and bathe her in his tears, beseech her to accept him back fully, to turn back the hands of time to before any of this had happened.  _

_ A man is born and dies according to her forgiveness. _

_ And yet something else stirs.  A man is somehow fatally drawn to the other, knowing how dangerous he is to all that a man holds dear and yet still mesmerized by him.  _

Jaqen was grateful when the late hour took all of the words from Aegon’s mouth and he started to drowse himself. A cool voice interrupted the beginning of his slumber.  They were about to land. 

 

 

 

\--

 

The plane was descending quietly at the edge of the night, just before dawn.  Arya woke with a start, wild-eyed before falling back into a drowsy state, slowly taking in everything around her. 

Aegon. Right next to her, his hand close to her face, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted.  She could not tell if he was asleep or awake. Her eyes darted to Jaqen, sitting in another seat away from Aegon; he was asleep, Arya knew that face.

That face. That face of hers, that face that she loved more dearly than anything else.

Wonder how much Aegon likes that face, wonder if he has kissed all of it yet, wonder if he’s kissed the side of his mouth, or touched his lips to that tender spot right under his earlobe, the spot that Jaqen could not help but inhale sharply when Arya would flick her tongue underneath it…

She was too tired to summon anger or jealousy at the moment but knew that the ghosts of them flew around her.

The plane was still moving but she could see landforms coming closer underneath, a thousand lights of what must be the suburbs of Moscow. 

The detached voice of the pilot sounded and Arya stretched herself out and watched the men wake up in turn. 

Jaqen moved languorously from sleep to wakefulness, Arya watched as his eyes opened and he immediately looked towards her.

She caught his eyes and saw how they softened at her, saw his lip move in suspense as if waiting for her reaction and then spread in relief at her neutrality. 

A start. 

Aegon woke differently; where Jaqen moved slowly Aegon was swift; like a bird startling on a branch he quaked momentarily and then settled, his arms moving quickly into a stretch above his head and Arya was struck for a moment at how long he was, how his body moved.

“You’re awake.  Thalia. We’re landing. We’ve made it.”  Aegon’s voice crackled just a little bit from sleep and then surged louder. 

He reached over to Jaqen and touched his knee to rouse him; Arya saw how his finger lingered and dipped on his leg and something broke inside of her, reformed into something darker.

Jaqen’s eyes were almost slitted and Arya ached to see the slant of his eyelids; his eyes always looked heavy with sex, and when he was just waking the effect was devastating.

Aegon had seen it too, apparently, and Arya watched outside of herself as she saw Aegon lean in and press his lips to the top of Jaqen’s cheek.

She saw a fear in Jaqen’s eyes when he looked at her, waiting for a reaction that she did not allow herself to have.

_ Calm as still water.  _

She would handle this later. As she saw the fear in his eyes, saw the landscape of an unknown land around her she swallowed everything. She needed to be calm, needed to make sure that they were able to continue this deception.

The whine of the plane got louder and louder.  Arya’s chest tightened; they really were here, they had gotten on a plane with Jaqen’s target. In Russia, a place known to be without the type of help that Varys could usually provide, in a pinch. 

 

She’d better keep it together. 

 

\--

 

A tall blond man met them on the tarmac with a black, foreign limousine and Arya shivered in the pre-dawn cold.  Aegon slid in next to her and saw her involuntary movement.  He reached an arm around her and pulled her up against him.

A different sensation. The feeling of Aegon. Jaqen always had a bit of softness to him, a velvet wrap around his skin. Aegon felt like a palpable jolt of energy, more cruel, even as the gesture was meant as one of comfort.

He gave a string of commands in Russia to the driver, and Arya peeked over at Jaqen; when she met his eyes she saw one eyebrow lift.

Aegon saw it as well and Arya felt his body rumble, a small laugh spilling out.  “I find, walking on earth, the woman that is a ghost made flesh. Do not be jealous, my panther, I will keep you warm as well.”

Arya had to close her eyes not to laugh.  _  A panther, eh?  Fits.  _

_ Had to close her eyes not to cry. _

She stirred a little and spoke. “So tell me, now that you’ve taken me on what is quite the deviation from my intended holiday on Cyprus...we’re going to your home?”

Thalia wouldn’t cry about that, Thalia would laugh, just a little.

And Arya, well, Arya snuggled a little bit more deeply up against Aegon, if only to see Jaqen squirm.

Aegon received her, reacted, tucking her more closely up against him.  Arya realized that the chill she had felt outside of the car was long gone, and that Jaqen’s stare was melting any remnants of the cold…

Aegon spoke. “It is my home, was my home, will always be my home...or place to rest. My family sprung from here; we built it centuries ago.  It is quite beautiful, but I’m afraid that I only come when needed. I find myself preferring Cyprus more and more.”

“Thalia, the reason that I am compelled to bring you here,” with that he tipped her face up to his and Arya could feel Jaqen’s tension rise, felt his leg move closer to hers in the car, “is because of my father’s wife. You will see.”

Arya smiled. “Tell me. So I remind you of your mother, eh? Seems like a twisted reason to pluck a stranger up in a bar, put her on a plane.”

“The stranger said yes, did she not?” Aegon laughed. “No, not my mother. Not at all my mother. Lyanna was...an opiate to my father.  As soon as he met her he was a changed man. He was consumed. My mother had been long dead.  Lyanna came to Moscow like a cyclone, and my father was obsessed. So I knew her through his lens, only; she was not comfortable nor did she try to become so with me.”

“So you brought me here because I looked like your evil stepmother, than?” Arya smiled again, and getting more comfortable in the role she looked up at Aegon and lowered her lashes.

Aegon was visibly agitated and she saw how his face registered one hundred emotions before settling on the one that he would explain.

“You look like what I was told was a goddess, you look like the spirit of winter. Lyanna was everything to my father.  All else fell away for him. She was beauty and sex, yes; she was life and death. She was everything.”

Jaqen had been watching and Arya could feel his emotions emanating, although in one rational part of her mind she felt a twinge of pride for how unreadable his face was. 

And then he reached his hand out and put it on top of Aegon’s hand, already on her shoulder; she felt the weight bear down on her from his addition, felt Jaqen’s fingers overspill where Aegon’s were. Felt something stir inside of her.

“Thalia.  It is a heavy burden. You are ready to embody life and death for us?” 

Arya pulled out Thalia’s humor, armored herself with it, daring to use Aegon’s words. “Beauty and sex is perhaps more attainable than life and death, don’t you think?”

Jaqen’s eyes went black for a moment and she simply smiled sweetly at him from behind Aegon’s arm draped around her.  Aegon squeezed her more tightly and she felt his head move so that his lips touched the top of her head. 

“Beauty and sex, life and death, none of it protected Lyanna. You don’t need to be anything for me. I just...had to share this with you, once I had seen you.”

Arya fell silent for the rest of the drive and stared out the window, processing his words, avoiding the heat from Jaqen’s eyes - jealousy? Anger that she was interrupting his mission? Guilt? All of it? - and staring at the foreign landscape as the houses became larger and larger and then a great estate appeared.  The limousine pulled into a set of tall wrought iron gates that smoothly slid open and then a vast, ornate mansion opened in front of her. 

“Dragonstone.” Aegon chuckled. “Yes, my family believed, long ago, that they had been helped by the winged creatures, and named their seat of power for them. Come in. Come in. No dragons, I assure you.”

 

\---

 

 

Stretching her legs out Arya moved from the limousine and followed Aegon as he led them through the front doors and into the foyer of the massive house.  It was like a castle; the exterior felt like it was guarded by a pair of tall towers at the front.  

Arya looked around silently; she had never seen anything like this. It really did mimic the castles that she had seen during her travels. Great tapestries hung and a huge crystal chandelier cast light across a veined marble floor.

She could not speak. She looked over at Jaqen, his face was serious.

 

_ What had they done… _

 

Aegon strode forward and bid them to follow him.  They walked to a formal parlor, the large room almost baroque in its decor.  Aegon motioned towards the massive fireplace and Arya looked up.

And staring back at her was her mirror image, a portrait of what could have been her own self, astride a great black horse.  A trio of wolves surrounded the horse but they seemed to be in tandem with it, the animals were leaping and..Lyanna...sat with one arm raised, her hair furling out behind her, Arya’s own face on the canvas, Arya’s own hand holding the reins, Arya’s very being captured in the portrait, down to the shape of her mouth, the strong eyebrows, the glint in her eyes.

It was...discomfiting. 

Aegon stood reverently in front of it and then she felt his gaze burn upon her.  “So you see...when I saw you...I felt as though I had known you for my entire life.”

She smiled weakly and out of the corner of her eye saw Jaqen staring at the portrait. 

“Yes. Just so.”

Jaqen was slipping, slipping out of Anton’s character and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sit, sit. Let me make sure that you are accommodated. I’ll have some tea brought to you and then show you to your rooms. It is still an ungodly hour.  I have to go into Moscow proper this morning.  The two of you will be alright, no, if I leave you until after lunch?  Rest, rest; there is a pool, you can explore the gardens; you can ride like Lyanna, should you so desire, sweet Thalia.  Anton, I’m counting on you to ensure that our guest is entertained.”

Aegon smiled again at Arya and she felt something behind it, a light that she could flick on if she so desired. 

And then he turned, his energy and electricity suddenly withdrawn from her, from the room, and he bounded out into one of the hallways.

And she was left with Jaqen, alone. 

And his inscrutable face, covered with too many emotions for her to pick the dominant one and bring it to bear. 

“Here we are.” She spoke coolly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with your lover. Give you the burden of  _ entertaining _ me.”

Hurt, hurt settled on his face and he kept her eyes, even as his voice wavered. “Yes, here we are.  All of this happens and yet a man finds himself so glad to have you in front of him.”

“Are you? Are you really? Jaq…” she caught herself “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me any of this. Were you trying to get away from me?”

She was barely speaking above a whisper and Jaqen moved closer to hear her, close enough so that his scent was filling her, his smell that she loved so much...and it took everything she had not to cry. 

“A man loves you beyond reason, beyond sense.” His voice was so low that it barely carried to her ears and she stopped herself from moving toward him. “Lovely girl, please know that. We are in a dangerous place, now; please, please be careful. When this is done and over - and soon, it will not take long - a man will show you, over and over. I am sorry. I am sorry.”

“Do you want him.” Arya was cold.

He sighed. “No. And yes. We are way past social fictions, heart of mine. And the answer is that you are mine, for eternity, and I am yours.  Your skin, your heart, your soul. Mine. Meant to be mine, the only person I have loved.  Ever.  And the answer is also... that in the course of a duty that was given to me, I stumbled upon  _ this _ ...person, who is somehow fascinating, somehow has ensnared me. For an hour, for a day, perhaps. But this duty will be done, and so will he. Does this mean that I love you less? The answer is overwhelmingly no. That is impossible. Would I leave right now, if a girl asked? The answer is overwhelmingly yes.”

 

Arya’s eyes widened; his honesty stung. She said nothing.

 

He peered into her eyes. “Lovely girl. I can not lie to you. Not again. Never again. I would give my life for you. You know that, do you not?”

They heard Aegon’s sharp footsteps draw closer and Arya simply nodded, stepping away from Jaqen before they were seen. 

_ All that he said was true. All of it.  _

And now it was up to her whether or not to accept it. 

She noticed that every time Aegon came into the room it was as if a wind blew around him; his presence was so commanding, quick.  He smiled at her and then looked at Jaqen, nodding as a small blond maid brought tea to one of the tables, a plate of food. 

Arya was famished and she sank into a chair nearest, taking the cup from the maid with a smile and noting the woman’s obvious shock.  

_ They’ve all lived under Lyanna’s gaze.  _

She was famished and she was tired and she drank the tea down, feeling the warmth spread through her.  The maid handed her a plate of small crepes and she devoured them, barely able to keep her eyes open once the food had been swallowed.

Aegon saw this and he quickly moved to her side. He reached a hand out to her, to lead her, and she took it, exhaustion again starting to soften her movements.

“Here, here...let me show you to your suite. Actually, we can pick a suite - it’s been so long since I’ve had company. You are welcome to your own wing of the castle if you’d like. Anton, she’s exhausted...come with me to get our guest settled, and I’ll show you, as well, our quarters.”

Arya heard the possessiveness;  _ of course Jaqen was staying with Aegon, of course of course….  _

She made a calculation, even as tired as she was. Jaqen may have told her his truth but she did not want to be alone in this huge house, away from them, trying not to imagine that truth, unable to escape it. 

 

She would see it, see it for herself. 

 

“You’ve brought me out here, surely I can stay closer to you? I think it would be quite strange to be so...isolated.”

Aegon stopped and Jaqen caught up to them. Aegon had a look of delight on his face; Arya could feel the apprehension edging out whatever other dark heat Jaqen was feeling. 

_ He gave me his truth. Now let him live it in front of me.  _

Aegon’s fingers again around her face, his lips again on her forehead. And then she felt the skittering sensation, unfamiliar; his finger moved from the safety of her hairline and quickly down her neck, and under her jaw before retreating back to the sweet chasteness that he’d shown with her.  Sparks. She felt her pupils dilate, felt his attention burn on her, and in all of the strangeness Aegon’s strange beauty plucked something inside of her; resonated with a humming deep in her core.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Thalia, than knowing you are so close.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! this has been challenging to write and I would love your constructive feedback if you have it. believable? am I overthinking? do you guys just want me to cut to the chase here? or is it all just dandy?
> 
> 'social fictions, heart of mine' - thanks to an author friend for the inspo on that line. can't take credit. you *know*.


	24. a rising

Sweet Sansa was getting restless.

It wouldn’t be prudent to let her go off the rails.  Better to keep her calm. He didn't mind her when she was on edge - It _was_ always satisfying when he’d move her from a franticness, a restlessness and unwind her so that a peace came into her eyes.  And in between - the fire of her - unleashed.  But it was better if she kept calm. Better than good, better than perfect, at least for now. 

Oh she was more than he had dreamed of. And in more ways than one - and he was a man who dreamed big.

She’d come so far. He’d watched her, watched her interface with all of them.  That perfect mask, unreadable, sweet; she could be a formidable enemy if she only wanted to be one. How anyone could have a negative thought in their head about beautiful Sansa - no, no. She turned from an earnest, slightly childish young woman into a force, an absolute force of nature.

He hope that the control would hold. He could hear it ebb, hear the edges of her voice over the phone if she was cooped up with Willas for too long.

No, he needed her to stay still.  Just for a bit longer.  She needed to play the game, play the dutiful wife, and play it well. Use her mind, not just her emotions.  Just a bit longer.

 

\---

 

Sansa knew she had to buckle down and just wait, wait for Olenna’s death to fade, wait for Willas to snap out of his funk, wait and wait again until the time was ripe for her to leave with Petyr.

But it was so much harder than she’d realized.

They had planned it when they had been able to sneak away together, castles in the air more than anything, Petyr alternating between giving her that shitty grin, that lopsided smile that realized more and more was hers alone, and tracing the tip of her with one well-manicured fingernail, up and down, from her breast to her side.

She’d come home from those _working lunches_ trying to hide the smile that played around her face. Willas had stopped going to work; he had his deputy take over, and for a while would work from his office.  Then she stopped hearing the phone calls, no more of Willas’ voice stern yet kind as he was talking to his team.

Just silence from his office.

She made sure she kept a steady stream of pattering conversation for him; made sure to keep eye contact with him, unflinching under his brown-gold eyes, even in their sadness.

_Surely he’s not still mourning?_

He had to go back to Georgia in the next few days, deal with Olenna Tyrell’s body for the second time, and she would be glad to have his energy out of the house, glad to have him out of her thoughts for a bit. Her mind was made up. And each day that passed was one day closer...oh, so many days to wait, but they would pass.

And in the meantime, Sansa was excited about lunch, or more specifically, her lunch date.

She stood in the bathroom carefully brushing mascara over her eyelashes: one stroke, another...and touch the tiny brush to the infinitesimal little hairs at the very edge of her eye. Standing back, she dotted the smallest bit of a peachy blush on the top of her cheekbones and rubbed it in.  She was in blue; Petyr liked her in blue.

_Petyr liked her in everything. And nothing._

Satisfied she smiled at herself in the bathroom and clicked the light off, moving into the bedroom.

Willas was right there, right outside the bathroom door, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Swaying.

He was drunk.

“Where’re you going?” He tried to smile for her, but it didn’t match at all his eyes and his sad mouth immediately moved back into a frown after the effort was made.

“To lunch, darling. What’s the matter?”  Sansa realized that she was standing back from him, but surely that was okay? He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she was still smiling at him, and surely she could get out of the room before he started to ask too many questions.

“Lunch. To lunch!” Willas laughed a dry, bitter laugh. “And just who are you having lunch with today, Sansa?”

“You’re drunk.” Sansa pursed her mouth.

“So? Who are you having lunch with?” Willas started to move. He wasn’t staggering but it wasn’t his normal movement; it was heavier, ungainly.

“The president of the foundation. The Southside Children’s Foundation.”  The lie came quickly. They all did, now. She felt it roll of her tongue with haughtiness, straightened her head, looked down at him.

“All for the little children, right, Sansa?”

Something in his tone was off. Mean.  Sansa eyed him through lowered lids, making sure that she kept her distance.  This was not Willas...this was not Willas.  Not at all Willas. Drunk. Pathetic. He was under so much pressure, with Olenna and Margaery and Loras.  Margaery and Loras called him practically on the hour.  That must be what’s bothering him…

“Willas. Are you sure you’re okay? You need something to eat, you need to go to sleep.”  She clucked, trying to make a soothing sound.

“I don’t need to sleep.  I need my _wife_.” His voice rose. Sansa couldn’t tell if he was sad or angry but she could tell he was drunk, drunker than she’d ever seen him before in her life.

His words didn’t pierce her. She had made up her mind. Her guilt had fled, only to be replaced by a syrupy, sticky annoyance that she was unable to wash off.

She stepped back with some finality.  “You’ll have your wife...when you’re sober. I’m going to lunch. I’ll be home later.”

He was faster than she thought he’d be; his fingers closed around her wrist before she could pull it out of his way.  Something that she did not know shone in his eyes and she pulled back. But he had her wrist, roughly, and he yanked her close to him.

Close enough for her to smell the whiskey.

Funny how she’d always thought about that whiskey - so much fine whiskey, in a gorgeous ebony bar, marble surfaces, and Willas barely even touching it.   _All for show_ , she’d thought.

 _Well, not now._  He pulled her arm down so that her face was close enough for her to see the little capillaries under his eyes, see the stubble on his face. His mouth reached for hers and she felt it close over her lips. She squirmed again and he countered with another pull of her arm, his tongue pushing through her lips, too wet and strangely almost cool, unpleasant in her mouth.

What is he doing?

Willas’ fingers loosened on her wrist and he broke the kiss, moving back and almost pushing her away from him.

“Have your lunch. Go have your lunch. Save the fucking children Sansa.” _Terrifying. Terrifying._ It was if some profane ghost had infiltrated Willas. She pulled her hand out and ran out without another glance, slipping on the shoes that were close to the door and grabbing her bag, rushing down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.

She didn’t stop moving until she was almost all the way to the end of the second block; she turned down the alley and stopped up against a utility box.  She looked down the street; the alley was parked with Audis and Volvos, a Tesla here and there.

_This doesn’t happen here, my husband doesn’t get shitfaced drunk and grab me, grab me, not in this neighborhood, not in my life._

She stood up against the doorway and listened to her heart start slowing, felt the flush that had risen up her face subside.

When she felt like her breaths were slow enough, when her face was opaque enough to hide all of the thoughts that welled below, when she was safe she stood up and straightened her skirt, pushing her shirt down and wiping off the saliva that remained from Willas.

Willas.  By the gods, what was wrong with him? Terrifying. The nerve.

She started walking and looked down at her shoes.   _Damn. I wish I hadn’t left the patent slingbacks by the door. Doesn’t work with this dress._

As Sansa walked further away from her flat, the sound of her patent leather heels striking the sidewalk got louder and louder and she listened to it.  Each step, closer to _him._

 

\--

 

Aegon was leading her somewhere, and Jaqen walked behind. An impossibly long hallway, wide with silver candleholders tucked into white alcoves, almost religious if the ornate wallpaper and busy carved wood moulding hadn’t instantly reminded her that she was in an incredibly well-kept mansion.  Portraits of ghostly men with strangely dark eyebrows and eyes that were alternately icy blue or a lighter version of the violet; women with silver hair that looked like they had materialized from the light of the moon.  And occasionally, punctuating the pale denizens of the walls, was Lyanna, instantly visible with her dark hair and dark eyes.

When they’d pass an image of Lyanna, Aegon wouldn’t point it out, but she saw him change each time; darting looks at her and then continuing on; she could fairly feel Jaqen’s attention rise.

The tea had helped restore her, somewhat; she was able to appreciate the estate - and remember why she was here.  Thalia. Thalia would be fascinated. And it was fascinating;  it was ornate beyond anything she had seen; it seemed as if it had been frozen in some other time, when the Russian Tsars owned everything.

She caught herself. _Aegon does own everything. He’s one of the richest men in Russia._

Aegon stopped at a bank of doors near the end of the hallway; Arya could see the corridor bulb out and a massive couch in a large alcove; beyond that was another set of doors.

“The doors must all be ten feet high. This house is magnificent.”  Thalia turned to Aegon and smiled as he reached out with a controlled, quick movement and opened the door into the suite.

It was magnificent, strange; a room in which time might have stopped, but for the utter absence of dust, but for the strange black rectangle of a flatscreen television on the wall, strangely plain in the presence of the vining wallpaper, the massive rug, the carved chairs at a sitting table.

“Your room, my dear.”  Aegon’s mouth pulled up, the bottom full lip stretching into a smile that his eyes echoed, an interested smile as he intently looked down on her form.  In her peripheral vision she realized that Anton was watching her, as well, and she felt the pressure from two sets of eyes.

“It’s gorgeous. Absolutely. “ Thalia walked around in the room.

For a moment something else surfaced. _Sansa would love this shit._

Thalia pulled herself to the window, allowed herself a moment to let that errant, intrusive thought fade in some privacy.

The sun was rising and the grounds were visible now, moreso than when she’d gotten out of the car in the unformed morning light.  The must be near the back of the house, of this mansion; a garden stretched in front of her, tended; further out she could see a barn.

“You have horses, here?” Thalia’s voice caught.

“Yes. In fact, we have some of the best Trakehners in Russia.”

At Thalia’s quizzical look Aegon smiled indulgently. “The Trakehner is a Russian horse. Very fast, very delicate. Meant to be fast. Like the Arabians, like the Thoroughbred, but tough for Russian winters.”

Thalia’s face lit up.  Thalia, apparently, couldn’t help it. “Can I ride?”

Aegon laughed. “I have to leave, my dear. Can you wait? My horses can be too spirited. If you haven’t ridden…”

Thalia smiled. “Oh, I have. Besides, it would be great to ride off some of the tiredness, some of the strangeness off. And then come in and properly appreciate this bed and take a nap, just like women on holiday do, when they’ve spirited off to Russia with a strange man.” she glanced back at Anton. “Strange men, excuse me.” Thalia gave a wicked smile and felt something else click into place.

She felt her power return.

Anton frowned, she could feel it.

“Very well, if you’re sure that you’ll be okay.” Aegon nodded, slowly. “I have...well, I have riding clothes that will fit you.  Anton, you should go with her.”

Thalia shook her head quickly. “Oh, no need. I played polo; I’m relatively confident that I’ll be okay.”

She noted with a look of grim satisfaction as Anton was cowed, momentarily - he’d been silent this whole time, and she could feel the disapproval rolling off of him, his own inability to express it in front of Aegon.

Aegon stood straighter and gestured to Anton. “Polo. You should be fine. Be careful.”  He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead again, moving to the door quickly.

"I'll come with you." Anton stepped closer. "I must. You are a guest, after all..."

Thalia shook her head quickly. No, this would be her time, hers alone. Her voice came out too loud, too fast. "No. Truly. I would like to be alone, just for a bit." Her eyes dared him to push her any further. _No._

Anton blinked and then nodded slowly. Obediently. “Very well. Just please be careful.”

For a brief moment the memory of Arya Stark seeing his face for the first time, riding in front of him, on the lush, forested and yet still forlorn lands of Winterfell flashed through her mind. When he was a man that had just completed a mission, a man gone into hiding for a time.

_Rule your face._

Thalia smiled again and Anton motioned for her to stay still.  The two men disappeared out of the door, and only a moment later Aegon returned, a pair of tall leather riding boots in his hands, a dark grey pair of jodphurs folded neatly, tucked up against him and his ozone and his slenderness, tucked in his arm.

Thalia smiled widely at his face; he was excited, she could see it. His eyes flashed for a moment and he pressed the jodphurs into her hands, set the boots down by the door.

“If you’re going to ride, you’ll need boots.  And if you’re going to be here, you might as well use Lyanna’s. They’ve been kept immaculately. Change and I’ll take you to the stables before I go into the city.”

Thalia’s eyebrow rose and Aegon laughed. “Yes, yes. Very strange. It _is_ Lyanna’s.  But if it fits, you might as well use it.  Her things were moved into a linen closet just there” - a long finger gestured - “and so anything you might need, please, please, be my guest.”

Thalia noticed his eyes, a furrow on his brow, even as he laughed, as his violet eyes laughed; his attention, his intensity completely on her. _He’s almost too beautiful, too beautiful to be real._

He shut the door and Thalia stood for a moment, looking at the room and holding Lyanna Stark’s riding gear in her hands, lost in a moment of wonder, lost in Thalia’s thoughts.

 


	25. I was meant to indulge you

Fighting with Ygritte was like fighting with the lakes, with the forests, with the trees.  She might bend to Jon’s will, but it was always temporary; it would lash back, he knew he might pay the price later. 

In her grief he knew that the price would be even steeper, but he had to cajole her, to argue with her...he had to make her see reason. 

They couldn’t just disappear into the woods.  _ Lot of good that did for her father _ , now all that he ever was on this earth reduced to smoldering ash and the tears that glistened on Ygritte’s face. 

He pulled her to him, whispered softly into her ear. 

“We have to go back, babe.” 

He felt her start to struggle against him and gently, gently he tightened his grip around her, trying to make her feel the safety in his touch, in the way his arms covered her.  _ If only he knew what he was protecting her against... _

“Look, Ygritte. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand who the enemy is here. That means I don’t know how to fight them.  Whoever this is, they have no reason to suspect the two of us of anything...unless we give them a reason. Let’s go back home, at least we can figure out what we need to do.”

Jon frowned and dipped his head into her hair, she was the only thing that made sense, she was the only thing that would ever make sense to him and he cursed himself for not being able to protect her completely.  “Besides, I need to understand this, Ygritte. This can’t be the government. It has to be a mistake. I fought for our country. This is not normal.”

He could feel her start to acquiesce, bend, a sapling obeying the wind; feel her soften in his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to protect the complicated tangle of limbs, fragile and light underneath him. She sighed. “Just what do you think you’re going to do about it, eh?”

He kissed her again. “I don’t know yet, but I’m not going to run, not yet.”

She raised her head and met his eyes. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. And if we die, we die. But first we live.”

The words gave her strength and he kissed her, tenderness and passion and sorrow.  _ Life. _

They walked in silence back up to the compound and he saw the sadness touch her face all over again. If only he could shield her. If only he could shield her from everything. 

When they made it back to his Jeep, he picked up a handful of mud and tossed it to obscure his license plate, just in case.  She gritted her teeth when she saw the cave, the little compound in front of her, her father’s blood now soaked into the earth, the soil darkened by it.  Her eyes flashed dangerously and she gestured for him to go. 

He felt his brow furrow and his jaw set, and he turned the Jeep around and drove the bumpy dirt road as fast as he could, towards Marquette, towards understanding. 

 

\--

 

_ The aide’s hands shook as he read the memo to the President, and he watched the man’s face redden.  _

_ They had failed to run his operation under the radar. His orders were not to get caught.  Not yet. They’d handle enemies publicly, later. And yet for all of his warnings, his special Homeland Security branch had been seen, this time while sweeping the Northern border for dissidents, for traitors.  _

_ They’d been spotted, once in Northern Michigan where one of their drones was shot out of the sky; once in the fields of northernmost Minnesota; a family had to be taken out in North Dakota. All of them. _

_ But they  _ had _ taken out dozens of anti-government militiamen on the northern border of the country.  People who could easily arm themselves in Canada and run back over the border.  Most of them were inconsequential. It was a warmup before they got into the cities, before he needed to snipe more recognizable figures.  Take out the small ones first, weaken the movement, and then try to cut out the heart.  Actors, uncooperative state governments, people in the public eye that were busy stirring up vitriol in the people. Reporters, lawyers...it was a long list.  _

_ Yes, best to start small with the little rebels in the north. Get it right. The rest could come later. Little by little he was taking out his enemies.  Correction. Enemies of the new order, enemies of his new United States of America™, indivisible, under him.  _

_ The aide finished reading, and waiting for a reply that did not extend beyond a grunt, gave a short half bow and vanished. _

_ \--- _

 

 

Arya set out Lyanna’s jodhpurs, strangely highwaisted, the boots still well kept. The pants had slid onto her like a second skin, the fabric still stretchy after all of these years; the boots were just a bit too big and she pulled them off and thanked her stars that she had put an extra pair of socks in her suitcase. 

Arya would have worn a hoodie...but Thalia would do no such thing and so a more proper navy blue sweater was pulled over her head and she walked out of the room. 

Her mind was racing. It was too much, too much.  _ Why come here, then? _ She had felt herself harden, her heart crystallize towards Jaqen. She knew it wouldn’t last, she knew that she might melt later under his voice, but the anger felt good right now, felt like it gave her a purpose, gave her bravery in this reckless, foolish journey she had taken.  And she didn’t know enough about this particular task Varys had assigned to him to even help him. Now that she was here, in the thick of things, she didn’t know which way to turn. 

_ If he had told me about this mission, I wouldn’t be here, I’d have understood.  Or he wouldn’t be here, because I’d have told him my heart would break, and surely that meant  _ something _.    _

_ But he didn’t, he didn’t tell me anything. Nothing. Fuck him.  _

She scowled and opened the door of her suite to wait for Aegon outside of his room, on the seating in the alcove, trying not to listen for Jaqen’s voice, trying to keep the cold in her heart for him.  

She exhaled, thinking about her own heat escaping her body. _ It will be good to ride. It will be so good to ride, to move...get away from here, concentrate on something else besides my own fucking feelings… _

The door to Aegon’s suite opened and Thalia turned her head and smiled at Aegon automatically until she looked at him. 

He looked unearthly. He had gotten dressed for his meeting; a closely fitting suit, expensive; dark grey and well tailored on his long form; his shirt was sky blue and the effect on all of it against his skin, his strange pale skin, his platinum hair, slightly wild, was almost too beautiful to look at.  The blue seemed to make his bottom lip look pinker; his eyes glowed a bluish purple and as he looked at her his focus became intense, razor sharp, and as their eyes met she felt like he had banished everything else from the world. 

Thalia swallowed.

The door closed and in a part of her head, she remembered was going to try to look behind it, to see Jaqen, torture herself with a vision of him in traitorous action. But she hadn’t remembered in time and before the thought could flick through her rational brain again she was standing, Aegon towering above her; taller than Jaqen so that her head barely reached under his shoulder, his hand having helped her up and his fingers wrapped around hers, that strange ozone and citrus smell seeming to emanate from his very skin. 

He was leading her away from the room and as he walked he kept his hand tightly around hers and she saw that he still watched her, his head turned to the side even as they moved forward through the ornate hotel, dreamlike and vague as her attentions to anything but the hand on her own waned. 

“I can’t continue to look at you as Lyanna. Although, it is taking all that I am not to stop you from walking and bow at your feet.  My father’s Venus - no, my father’s Helen - here at my fingertips. You are radiant.”  He spoke in hushed tones. 

Thalia blushed, she felt her cheeks redden and she realized that yes, Thalia  _ would _ blush if all of her hormones connected, neurotransmitters receiving his words, his touch; her emotions changed and the blood that seemed to be working overtime, pumping her heart more quickly than it needed to, would then travel up to her face and redden her cheeks to give this man a visual sign that she had heard him….

 

_ Rule your face.  _

 

She cleared her throat.  “Please.” She struggled a bit for words and found some, something that was not inflammatory, something to act as cold water on whatever heat she was feeling.  Strange man, strange power! She shook her head. 

“Aegon, I know nothing about you except that you have a family predisposition to women with dark hair and a giant mansion in Russia.  Tell me. This is your family home? What did you do to be so lucky?”

They had made it through a series of hallways and out a back door and were now traveling on a cobblestone pathway away from the house, toward the barn. 

“Russia has been very good to my family.  We’ve owned most of the aluminum trade, some of the gold mines, miles and miles of land. My grandfather was very politically powerful; my father was an ascendent star, before that one after the other had access to things that regular people could only dream of.”  His voice darkened.  “But Russia has also taken my soul, and my family. I’m the only one left with the Targaryen name, save an unfound aunt that disappeared years ago. Russia never gives what she will not take back, in blood and with interest.”  

Thalia cocked her head. “So you’re the last? Is that why you’re staying in Cyprus? Why don’t you sell this land and go?”

Aegon laughed and it sounded like a million knives, it sounded like sex, it sounded like a bell that clanged and jarred her to an uncomfortable heat.  She realized in the back of her mind that it was very difficult to tear her attention away from him,  _ that Jaqen had perhaps felt the same thing... _

“Russia has my soul, no? Taken it. I can’t just leave. I need to ensure that I can buy it back. The price is steep.”

They were in front of a massive barn; stone walls greened with moss and the sweet earthy smell of horses emanated.

The morning sun was up and shone feebly; Aegon’s estate was on the edge of the city and to one side she could see a line of buildings and glass and humanity on the edge, and to her other side green fields and hills.  The pastures connected to the barn were mostly empty, save for a few horses dotting here and there. 

Aegon called, a stream of Russian coming from his mouth; when he finished he tightened his grip on her hand and led her inside. “I’ll have Alexei prepare one of the horses.  The pastures run for several hectares; it is varied enough to be good riding. Stay in the pastures until you feel comfortable; I will not lose my beautiful guest to a riding accident.”

A grey, wizened man materialized in front of them and she saw his mouth open as he looked at her, his eyes widen. Aegon continued to give the man instructions and he nodded and moved out of sight in the barn. 

Arya realized that she was just standing there, still holding his hand, that she knew where each of his fingers were on her palm, that one of them was in the meat of her thumb and gently moving down the curve; that Aegon’s shoulders were broad and his posture was that of a statue, imperious in front of her. 

_ No wonder Jaqen no wonder no wonder...this is a strange power….he is an alien, he is not of this world…. _

As if he sensed her thoughts he turned to her and smiled, that wide smile, and he bent his head and kissed the top of her head.  She was aware suddenly that he was standing in front of her, that his body was closer to her own than it had been, that there were little cracklings of energy, unseen, emanating whether from herself or from him she did not know. 

She just knew that she felt it. 

“Alexei is fetching the horse, preparing her. I will stay here to see you off, and then I have to go into Moscow proper. I’ll have lunch sent to you, and please feel free to explore the house, the grounds. Anton is very willing to explore with you, please go to him if you wish. It seems he has taken a liking to you; I think you broke his heart when you said you wanted to ride alone. When I return we will put our heads together, see if you feel in the mood to go into Moscow, perhaps we will just have dinner here.  It is my pleasure to have you, so much I can not say.”

_ I think you broke his heart. _ ..too fucking bad. Thalia felt a jolt of rebellion. When his lips left the top of her head, she looked up at him. “What do you have to do in the city?”

He smiled at her, indulgently. “My dear, I have to go buy some time. And bow to the President. That is all.”

Her eyes widened.  Jaqen’s target. The President of Russia. Oh oh oh shit. 

He laughed at her expression, imperiously, and put his face close to hers.  “Beautiful ghost-come-to-life, do not look at me like that.”

“It’s just...I had no idea.”  Thalia picked her words carefully in her shock.

“Mmmm. And now you still have no idea. I will tell you about the visit, when I return.”

His face was bent down yet there was still a good six inches between their faces, and suddenly he closed the gap and she felt those soft lips on hers, chastely kissing her mouth and pulling back as if he realized what he was doing a moment too late.

She felt something harden and then melt in herself and impulsively she stood up on her tiptoes to meet his mouth again; she felt those lips against her own and she opened her mouth just to allow the tip of her tongue to explore and pulled back, back down to her flat feet, her eyes focused up on his.

They stared at each other and she tried to stop herself from quivering. 

The sound of the horse clopping to them interrupted their reverie and Thalia looked up.  A dappled grey mare, long legs and arched neck, delicate features: this was a horse built for speed. 

Thalia hummed her approval. “Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.”

Yes, it would be good to ride all of this away, to exist just for a moment on the back of the horse, to brush away that strange heat that had risen and crowded out the rest of her emotions. 

Alexei led the horse to her and Thalia easily mounted the mare, checked her seat. Alexei handed her the reins and made a motion that strangely looked like the sign of the cross, dropping his eyes when she looked at him curiously.

Thalia raised her eyebrow, looking at Aegon from this vantage point, above his head. He smiled at her, tenderly, something else rising in his eyes.  Recognition, want...coupled with the astonished adoration on Alexei’s face it was too much.  Aegon walked and gave a gentle clicking noise to the horse and they followed him; he swung open a gate at the end of the barn and the lush pastureland opened in front of her.

“Show me, Thalia, show me what you can do before I leave, or I will spend my afternoon worried about you.” 

Thalia twitched her legs gently and applied some pressure with her thighs and felt the horse’s gait swell and move into a fast trot; she rode in big circles in front of him, feeling him watching her, that smile on his face.  Her back naturally straightened, she felt the power flow through her arms and into her hands, a back-and-forth between herself and the horse’s sensitive mouth. Once she found her seat, she tightened her legs a bit more and the horse responded by moving into a rolling canter; fast. It was exhilarating. The horse was as responsive as if it were an extension of her; the gait was smooth and Thalia pulled the reins back slowly to guide her back over to Aegon. 

She felt her face flush; it had been a long time since she had ridden and she felt the joy of it almost push away everything else.  

He beamed. “Truly you are meant to be on horseback. Again, if I may, so much like Lyanna. I have indeed found her ghost.  Very well. When you are finished, just call for Alexei and he will take care of the rest. I will see you in a few hours.” He placed a hand on her leg and again that sharp electricity; she had to suppress a gasp.

“Thank you. Thank you for indulging me. Perhaps you can ride with me, later?”  Thalia called.

“I was  _ meant _ to indulge you.” His smile only veered on suggestive,  _ perhaps it was only in her mind? _ He withdrew his hand and she felt the sparks leave, her own blood rush to the surface to find them again.

She fumbled her words. “And..good luck.” To hide her dismay, she gave a weak smile and wheeled the horse toward the open pasture, toward the dark green treeline that was perhaps a quarter mile away.  

The horse thundered at her command and she let the sound of it drown out her thoughts, forced her body to concentrate on nothing but the rhythm of it, the feel of the cool morning air against her face; shook the thought of those eyes burning over her by focusing on the green grass meeting a cloudy grey horizon guide her. Push the sweet ache that had risen up from her away, almost pleasurable to deny herself. 

A thought surfaced and she brushed it away.  She’d think about Jaqen, later. 

  

 

 


	26. knowledge is power

Once Sansa got far enough away from her flat, common sense started to wash over her and she weighed her next move with a more dispassionate eye. 

_ What does Willas know.  _

_ And, how does he know it.  _

She wondered, briefly, if she was being watched, wondered if that thought was borne of paranoia...or if they’d been too careless; an upscale restaurant possibly frequented by Willas’ peers; his flat certainly easy enough to monitor, should anyone suspect her of anything. 

She stopped and called him.

“Yes, sweetling?” God she loved how strong his voice sounded, the faint Irish brogue clipped, a million mysteries in the way his voice sounded so worldly and controlled, something bubbling under the surface... how she loved it when he’d lose his control….

She lost her own and felt her eyes well up. “Petyr. Something...Willas is not right...I don’t know if he suspects you, or if it’s just Olenna...but he’s not right...I can’t meet you in public…”

_ Oh to lose herself but still know that he would not let her fall…. _

She snuffled and a small, frustrated sob moved past her mouth.

“Why can’t we just leave, why can’t we leave now? Enough of this…” She wanted to be done, she wanted to be free.

“Shhh, shhh….Sansa….Shhhh...Okay. I’m sending you an address. Find a car, meet me at this address. It will be safe.  We’ll discuss this there. I need you to keep it together, sweetling, keep it together. You’re stronger than this.”

Sansa nodded mutely and sucked her breath in, willing the noisy ragged edges of her crying to cease, to halt...pull herself back together.

She planted her feet squarely and wiped her face off. “Okay. Okay. I’ll meet you.”

“Good girl. And Sansa...don’t do anything else. Don’t call anyone, and certainly don’t call Willas. Just  meet me; we’ll talk about the next move at my office.”

“I don’t need the address to your office, Petyr; I know where you work.” 

Petyr’s laugh came and went quickly. “No, Sansa...my _ other  _ office. We’ll be unseen there. I’ll see you soon.”

\--

 

The text came through, Sansa called for an Uber and soon she was headed towards a part of Chicago that was only familiar through her charity work. When the driver slowed and raised his eyebrow at her, she only nodded, getting out of the car once she scanned the address, a downtrodden office building among squalor. 

Fourteen people had been shot on this corner in the past month. This was ground-zero in Chicago’s worst neighborhood. Petyr’s other office...indeed.

She wondered what the fuck happened here, in this building. 

Before she could open the door she realized he was behind it; he whisked her inside and turned a bolt to lock them in. 

“Petyr...what is this?”  Sansa looked around. A perfectly bland, beige office suite; old chairs in the lobby and wood paneling that pulled orange belying it’s age. Empty, no sound, no people.

“Ah, Sansa, you realize that I can’t conduct all of my business from my law firm, right? This is...what we’d call a backup. Untraceable, almost, and very safe.” At her raised eyebrow and pointed look outside, he laughed. “Safe for me, at least.”

He grabbed her fingertips and led her upstairs and into a larger office, shutting the door behind it. This room was more modern but still seemed hastily put together - no, easy to hastily leave behind; devoid of anything that connected it to Petyr. A large leather couch, an anonymous painting of the Chicago skyline, a few laptops and screens on a glass desk. 

He kissed her, pushing her onto the couch and sitting beside her; his mouth was warm and his kiss was meant to be comforting. She melted up against him, against his smell, against his body and his lips found purchase against hers, tenderly nibbling against hers, sustaining a deeper kiss until she found her anxiety waning.  After a moment he pulled back and then kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair.

“Sansa. Darling. Tell me what happened.” His face was close to hers and his eyes stared, all seriousness as he looked at her, his forehead creased.

“Willas...wasn’t himself. He knows something, or something is happening with Olenna that just broke him, Petyr, he’s broken. He was drunk, drunk! He grabbed me, he seemed to think that I was off...doing...something...his whole being was just...off. I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Willas drunk before. He’s not leaving the house now. I don’t know what he suspects, but something is wrong and..I don’t want to go back to him.”

All of Sansa’s words came tumbling out and she felt the tears well up again. 

“And the worst part is, that he’s right...of course something is wrong, on all sides. I have one foot out the door, I’m so checked out, I can’t even let him touch me. And he has to go back to exhume Olenna this week, and I just...just can’t imagine how that’s impacting him. Loras and Margaery are fighting over her money. And usually Willas would handle all of it. He’s broken, he’s broken, and I’m afraid. For him.”

Petyr put both hands on either side of her face and held her; his thumb stroked gently down her cheek but she could feel the power in his hands. He stared into her eyes.

“Sansa. Don’t worry about Willas. He won’t hurt you. He’s too weak. He can’t. He’s not that kind of man. But you have to stay with him, you must. Just for a bit longer. A month, maybe two.”

_ A month? _ Sansa felt like she was falling, felt like the only thing holding her up were his fingers.

“I..I can’t. I won’t.”  

A thought crossed her mind. “Petyr, when we finally got together, it was after years of you... _ chasing  _ me. Why is it not enough for us to leave, now? Why do we have to wait? Isn’t it enough, just what we have now? Even without Willas, I have millions. You have millions. We could live however we want, wherever we want, and we could start that life now.”

She felt her eyes well up against the impossibility of staying with Willas for several weeks. “Am I not enough for you?”

She didn’t expect him to laugh, but he did, the rumbling of it rippling over her core and before she could protest he held her head even more tightly, and pulled it so that her eyes were even with his. 

“SWeetling. Of course you are enough. But it would be...unwise to walk away from Willas right now.  You’re everything that I have ever wanted. But if we wait, we can have anything beyond our wildest dreams.  Olenna Tyrell was filthy, filthy rich. Wait until the time is right.”

She sniffled. There was something in his voice, an excitement...she looked down and saw his pants bulge.. _ yes, _ there he was…

“But Petyr, if they find anything in Olenna Tyrell that means the whole process is halted. Years. An investigation into who knows what. And then what, do I wait until everything settles down?”

Petyr stared into her eyes, pulling her head even closer and his voice dropped down so that it was barely more than a rumble, rolling over each of her muscles, a rumble that reached deep into her core like fingers caressing her. 

“Sansa. When they dig up Olenna Tyrell, they’re not going to find anything. I promise you that.”

“But how can you know?” 

“No, darling, Olenna Tyrell will only be found of having a heart attack, brought on by her age and the demands of her stature. Nothing else will show. Because the cause of her death is untraceable, darling, the poison would have only stayed in her system for about twelve hours.  ”

Sansa’s mouth opened and closed and she met his gaze; his eyes had hardened into stone, his face had set and the crooked smile on his mouth had solidified. His hands felt like iron on her head and she realized that he had every muscle tensed.

_ Petyr had poisoned Olenna. _

“Why...what…”

She couldn’t speak. 

A sly smile moved across his face. “Sansa, having you is more than I could ever dream of. But it would be...imprudent to leave such a windfall on the table. Willas will receive Olenna’s wealth. Most of it. And then it will be yours. We could leave now, forever; a few million here and there. But if you can just wait, and trust me, oh Sansa, we’ll have everything.  But you have to trust me.”

His face was triumphant. Sure. Confident. Petyr was flint and steel and the cogs of a thousand clocks, working in the background, always moving.

His hands hardened further and Sansa stilled a yelp. “And I have to trust  _ you, _ sweetling.”

Something broke in his voice and he moved.

One of his hands moved from her head and a fingertip crept up her leg, roughly pushing her panties out of its way, pushing up against her sex and sliding into her; his other hand nestled into her hair and fisted it.  _ She was caught. _

And she fucking loved it.

She reached for his mouth, pushing her own hand down against him, flicking open his pants and freeing him, each kiss driving deeper than the first, pushing against his dominance of her. He was in control, he had her so that she could not move, the hand like steel in her hair, his lips punishing, his finger working into her, keeping her unsteady, focused only on helping him reach her where she needed it, her hips starting to move rhythmically against his finger, to push it against her clit… he was in control...and she loved it, loved it…

Finally feeling his cock against her hand she ran her fingers up against it, skin so warm, so ready for her...hers and hers alone...he gasped as her fingertip trailed along the underbelly of his cock, along the vein and then she closed her hands right under the head of it, squeezing and pulling him along with her…

_ Power is mine… _

He twisted at the motion of her hands and she felt his grip loosen from her hair just long enough to pull her shirt over her head, an annoyance; he pushed her nipples above the top of her bra and she felt like she was caged, her breasts still captive..she arched her back and felt his hand slide back into her hair. He roughly pulled her by the hair down to the couch and cruelly his finger left her cunt.

She arched up to get it back, and he moved so that her fingers were no longer on  him, the only contact she had with him was his hand in her hair. His pants were coming off, the clink of his belt as they hit the floor, a hiss of annoyance as he stepped out of them, and then he pulled her hair so harshly that her neck stretched in front of him and his mouth laved the white skin.

She was squirming and she wanted him so badly, and everytime she moved to angle herself so that she could have him he pulled her by the hair, roughly, she yelped little exhalations of pain. 

“Want….you….” she growled; she was squirming under him. 

“Do you want me to fuck you, Sansa? Say it.” Cruelty, cruelty and her head was yanked again, the hot pain on her scalp, his mouth had fastened onto her nipple and he bit it, sucking the pain away.

She was pinned and all she could do was writhe under him, she wasn’t making sense...nothing mattered, just him, just him…

“Say it.” He bit her again, that mouth so cruel, and then the hand teased her, fluttered over her mound, so close to her clit, achingly close to give her relief…

“Fuck me.” It was a whimper, it was a command, it was a beseeching.

And at the words he moved like an arrow and she felt him push up against her, the heat of him, god he filled her and she held him, feeling the cheap leather of the couch against her, his legs pushing her too widely apart, exposing other nerves, other places, and she held him as tightly as she could, her arms wrapped around him, her mouth on his ear, whispering his name, and he drove into her over and over again, as if he could not get deep enough even as she moved to meet him.

She came first, thrusting herself as far up against him as she could, swallowing him with her core, never enough but suddenly  _ too much.. _ .god...

She cried out and cruelly he pounded against her, losing all of his control on hearing her voice, as he emptied himself in her he gripped her even more tightly.

“Petyr. God. I love you Petyr.” She was panting, she could not form any words beyond those, but those were the only ones she needed…

And he was all that she needed. When her rational thought emerged, she smiled. He would handle all of this. He had a plan. Olenna Tyrell had lived a full life.  _ She did not suffer. _ Nothing had happened, it was a heart attack brought on by the demands of business, by the ravages of age.

 

Petyr had it under control.

 

And if he didn’t, if something else happened, she  _ knew  _ his secret now. And he had taught her well.

 

_ Knowledge is power.  _

\---

  
  


Arya didn’t mean to ride so long. But it felt so good. Her legs were aching, and the horse had obeyed her every whim; she rode out to the fenceline and back, and out and back, before the tiredness that had been pushed away by her initial rush of adrenaline reasserted itself and she acquiesced, guiding the little grey mare back towards the barn, stilling her desire to ride as quickly as possible with her knowledge that the horse needed to cool down.

 

Alexei met her at the barn; he’d been watching her ride in and he smiled at her as she rode up and dismounted in one movement.

“You are so much like her.” He smiled and stared at her.

She colored. “Yes, yes...so I see.” She gestured to the boots, to the riding pants and handed him the reins.

So...tired…

She felt the sweet ache in her muscles, felt the sweat rolling off of her and moved as quickly as she would back to the mansion, hoping that she’d be able to find her room.  Aegon had completely eclipsed her rational thought on the way to the barn...she hadn’t paid much attention.

Stupid. 

The blonde maid bowed to her when she walked in and Arya smiled at her.  The woman guided her down a hallway, and Arya recognized the door to her suite and thanked her, opening the door.

Only to find Jaqen waiting for her inside.

ARya scowled. She was not ready to untangle everything for him; all of her feelings right now were jumbled up. She had ignored all of it while riding, allowing the movement to act as a palliative, calming her; back in the room and literally faced with him she felt it all rush back, overlaid by her exhaustion.

“Did you need something.. _.Anton _ .” She heard the cruelty in her own voice, watched it as it struck him. He visibly recoiled. 

He was sitting on the edge of the bed; she saw his fingers move against themselves, nervous. And then he raised his chin and met her eyes.

“Yes. A man needs his bride to listen.”

She steeled herself against his voice, against his words: his bride his bride his bride…

She shrugged her shoulders and sat down in one of the chairs across the room. “I’m listening.”

“A girl has always had more courage than sense. Why do you come here? If you knew about this mission, surely you knew that it was dangerous? Do you think that I would just play some game for the fun of it? Do you think I would try to hurt you purposely?”

There was some pain in his voice, a desperation. Jaqen was so self-assured, so impenetrable most of the time...

He stood up. “Answer me. Do you think a man would just hurt you for no reason?”

His eyes were terrible. His lips were closed and she saw his eyebrows furrow. She could feel him, feel the hurt and sadness off of him.

_ No. He should have told me. _

She steeled herself. 

“Why didn’t you answer me? I tried to get ahold of you. You didn’t write back, you didn’t say anything. Why didn’t you at least tell me?”

“That is the question you have?” He frowned. “Lovely girl, I had a mission, the first in many years. I was...afraid. Afraid to fail, afraid to show you that I would fail.”

She laughed, bitterly, angry. “Afraid that I would find out that you had to fuck someone else?” She tried to still her voice. 

His eyes flashed angrily. “Why is this right for you, but wrong for me? Who is the man that was at our house, lovely girl? Varys sent me a photo of this man with his arms around you, you were kissing him. Were you also on a mission, one that you did not tell me about?”

Fuck. 

Gendry.

“I didn’t sleep with him.” Arya hissed.

Fucking Varys. She should have known. He’d set up the security system, he’d set up the cameras...of course he was monitoring them.

“No? His car did not leave until the next morning? Tell me, are you also on a mission, that is why some boy comes to a man’s house, kisses his wife, and leaves the next day?”

The side of Jaqen’s face twitched and his eyes were both sad and terrible, angry.

“And are you on some mission that you would allow a man’s target to kiss you, that you would kiss him back?” He stepped closer to her and for a moment Arya felt fear...the fear of his anger, the fear of his truth...the fear of what he had done, and what they had wrought.

She bowed her head. 

“I...I am sorry. I did not sleep with Gendry. He’s an old friend, an old boyfriend. I saw him out of nowhere in New York. I only kissed him.”

She pursed her lips. “Ask Varys for the full tapes. Sounds like he did quite an editing job for you.”

Fucking Varys.  What the fuck….

He suddenly dropped to his knees and his voice softened.

“Arya Stark. I love you more than life itself. We are in a dangerous situation, should anything come up. Varys can’t help us. A man has no allies in this country. And you...well, now Aegon is fascinated by you.”

She still felt the twinge of anger. “Oh, he’s quite fascinated by you, as well. Did you know that when you took this mission? And it looks like you’re quite captivated by him. Did you know  _ that _ , too?”

His jaw set and Arya could see the emotions behind his face. “You. You are my beloved. He is...something else entirely." He laughed, acid. "I see that a girl has been captivated as well.”

Arya didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to deny the strange electricity that had emanated from Aegon, and just stared balefully at Jaqen. Her husband. Her beloved. Her everything. Almost slipping out of her hands...

 

And... then Aegon was back. She saw a car drive up.

“Fuck. He’s back.” She stood up quickly, feeling her heart start to pump, feeling her face start to flush.

Jaqen stood up as well, rising in front of her. He reached out for her shoulders, holding her so that she had to face him. 

She wanted to cry.  _ Oh, Jaqen, my love...what have we done… _

He reached down and kissed her, gently at first, inquisitive, to see what she would do.

She allowed him, her lips could not deny him, he was of her flesh even as her heart was still torn, even as her rational brain wondered what would happen next.

And then she kissed him back fully, wrapping her arms around him. Her love, his skin melding up against her, the solid length of him so familiar, the smell of him...oh…

He pulled away from her.

“A girl does  _ what she needs to _ , here. As will a man. We will finish this job. The goal is to get home safely. That is all. Nothing else matters.”

She exhaled. “And..after?”

His eyes had brightened, wet. “Beloved, afterwards we shall see.”

 


	27. embarrassment of riches

The slam of the car door was audible even through the closed window.

 He was early, Aegon was coming home early…and Arya didn’t quite understand why or what he might be up to.

 “What is it that you need him to do, Jaqen?” She whispered, “what is it you need me to do to support you?”

He shrugged, lazily. “It does not matter what he does or doesn’t do – a man just needs to know if he will sign his deal or not. If he does, that means he is not loyal to the President. If he doesn’t, we exit as quickly as possible.”

His eyes bore into hers. “one at a time.”

He pulled her closely again, quickly, and she stiffened. Fucking Jaqen. _Nothing felt right…what had they done to each other?_

_And if he didn’t need to do anything, why had Jaqen fucked him?_

_There’s_ some _peace, a truce, uneasy… but this isn’t over._

 

And then he pulled her hand to his lips. The softness of his lower lip juxtaposed with the slight stubble on his face, the catlike slyness of his features, his breath curling around her hand…her heart lurched. He had a way of bowing his head and then looking up at her through his lashes, the whites of his eyes surrounding the great golden green irises…it had always pierced her.

_She held her breath. She didn’t want to have a reaction, she didn’t know what reaction to have…didn’t want to forgive him yet, didn’t want to…_

Footsteps came closer in the hallway. Quick, loud…Arya could hear a franticness in Aegon’s steps.

…and then like a veil sliding over Jaqen’s face suddenly, there was an opacity in his eyes, something closed inside of her and she realized that she was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

A knocking on the door.

Arya _changed_ , too. She had to. She slid into Thalia, into her coolness, into her amused, British tourist, amazed to find herself here…and in Thalia’s voice she answered the knock, almost a pounding. “Come in.”

Aegon’s eyes widened as he saw the two of them in here, Jaqen’s – no, Anton’s – hand in hers, and Thalia smiled widely at him.

“Your friend here is so charming.” She smiled, focusing her attention on Aegon. “How was it? Are you free for the afternoon?”

She took her hand back from Anton and turned to the other man, his face processing the image of both of them in front of him.

Anton turned as well. “I could very much say the same. I can’t speak to the charms of your ghost, but the flesh incarnate is just…lovely.”

Aegon stood, straighter than before, the midday sunshine streaming on him so that he was almost glowing in the light, and smiled down at both of them, a benevolent smile.

“Can I just tell you how…nice it is to come home and see you two together? No, I am done for the day. Something…unexpected came up. And I was _dismissed_ for the day.”

A look crossed his face, a cruel humor, a touch of anger, and then it slid off and his eyes turned benevolent once again, playful, something more. His face…his face…not entirely male normally, got a very male tinge as he looked down at Thalia.

“Still in your riding clothes, then? Have you eaten? Do you want to go into Moscow for the rest of the day? Or would you like to stay here? I know we’re not in Cyprus anymore, but the pool is amazing.”

Jaq – _no!_ \- Anton answered before she could open her mouth. “In Cyprus, _not_ in Cyprus…does it really matter? It is a state of mind. If we can eat and drink and lounge on these grounds, let’s. I think your guest is a bit tired, as well; this way she can have a…what do you call it in the UK? A catnap.”

He raised his eyebrow at Aegon and she felt something flare inside of her. _Was he getting rid of her?_

A sweet smile, the tips of her teeth stretching against her lips, her eyes focusing only on the tall willowy form in front of her, even as she had to force herself not to look at him, golden and muscled next to the other man. 

“A swim sounds delightful. And lunch. And yes, a catnap as well. I’m sure _you’re_ tired as well. Perhaps we could _all_ take a nap.”

A dare. A suggestion. She arched an eyebrow at them both.

Aegon’s eyes darkened, for a second, and she couldn’t help suppress a shiver.

 

_Do what you have to do._

_Do what you want to do._

She made little hand gestures to scoot them out of the room. “Very well, then. Let me take off Lyanna’s clothes, and put on my own. Where should I meet you?”

“Ten minutes. No, five. I can not wait any longer. At the base of the hall, near the blue room” – he gestured towards one of the sitting rooms – “and bring, of course, your swimsuit, if you have it.” 

He stopped. “Lunch, as well. Let’s just stay there all day. You’ll see why, once we get there.”

She gave him – and him alone – a secret smile, and then watched as Aegon turned towards the door obediently. Anton paused for a moment, that same opacity in his eyes, a mask she could not see through.

_She could always see through him._

Anton gave a laugh, short, a taste of his voice. “It seems that your ghost is hungry, Aegon. We’ll have to feed her.” 

Thalia stood in the room, watching him turn and leave as well and as the two forms passed through the door and pushed it shut behind them she felt herself release, something else in her core.

_Do what you have to do._

_\--_

It was, simply put, an embarrassment of riches.

His lovely girl had offered herself to the two of them. He could still see through her, could see what flashed behind her eyes.

What is she doing?

A man was always flexible. When he was performing his duties before, he would have to adjust to new information, new targets, new problems.

And now he had the problem of his lovely girl, standing in front of that man, smiling a smile that he had thought was only his. And she was beautiful in her deception; it took all that he had not to press his lips into the hollows of her collarbone, to the pinked nipples that he knew lay lower, into the soft curve of her stomach. Only his.

 

_Mine._

_Yours._

 

_Before._

What had she done?

Varys had sent a picture, and then another picture of a convertible driving off of his property, his…and he had swallowed his reaction, put his mask on even further. A man was on duty, a man’s heart could not break…even as he steeled himself, a man felt like perhaps he deserved it.

 

After all, the tall willowy man in front of him had given far more pleasure than anticipated.

 

He almost hadn’t heard her, when she suggested they all take a nap together. A nap! _Oh, lovely girl…playing with fire_. And then that was the only thing he could hear, the only thing he could focus on. And such fire…she had come to interrupt his duty, now in an incredibly dangerous place, and Aegon himself said he had been dismissed. Dismissed from a meeting with the Russian president, possibly dismissed from a meeting with the Minister of Finance.

Very unusual.

And Aegon wore it, as well. His face was still charming as he looked at Jaqen; once the door shut to the girl’s suite he had grabbed him, giving him one of those lightning-infused kisses; Jaqen felt himself respond in kind.

 _In kind_ , with his cock lighting on fire, despite his best efforts to still it.

_Do what you have to do._

_A girl would not wish to see this. She can never unsee this, she can never be free of the image of him kissing this Aegon._

A petulance came over him.

_Just as a man can never unsee the image of a lovely girl, her arms wrapped around a boy with dark hair, his face bent down to hers, arms around his own bride._

_Just so._

 

The game will be played. Everyone will come out alive. _And after, a reckoning, a balancing._

A hand on his throat stopped his thoughts and he came to, in a way, right into the eyes of Aegon.

“What are you thinking?” His voice was soft, too soft.

A man could only buy time…and so he smiled suggestively.

And then played his card.

“I’m thinking of how lovely your ghost is. Strangely bewitching. Don’t you… _feel_ it?”

Aegon’s mouth was on his, over and over, and they were in the great bedroom, and somehow the door had been kicked shut, that tongue, so much promise in each kiss, bigger than the last….

In between gasps, Aegon pulled his mouth away, answered the question.

“Yes. One million times over, yes, yes. But I won’t disrespect the ghost, even if it is just a coincidence that her form is so close to Lyanna. She does what she wants.”

That mouth was on his throat, those fingers were unbuttoning his shirt, that hand slid down his waistband and around his cock, and it was all a man could do to keep himself from spilling right then. His lovely girl was so close. She wanted to play the game, let her.

_Please, let her._

He purred as best he could. “yes, that is something that I would like to see. With you.”

As the words came out he felt himself come, come into Aegon’s hands, and Aegon laughed and then pushed his hand up to a man’s mouth, the strangely bitter taste of himself, licking off the long fingers.

 

\--

 

She did have a swimsuit. In fact, she had been very careful not to pick a swimsuit that had seen the best and worst days in her river, and instead the new one, the one that curved up around her ass, the one that covered her breasts but held them up _so_.

But she couldn’t walk through the mansion in a bikini. She shrugged under a black dress, long, light.

And then she grabbed the pack of Gitanes from her bag. _I will fucking need these, that is for sure._

She shivered in _…anticipation?_

_Let’s get through this. Just a few days. And then once back in Cyprus I can disappear, get away._

Or dive in deeper.

They were waiting for her; he wore a look on his face, a calm look, even more zen than his normal face; oh Jaqen, Jaqen…I know what you did in there, I know what happened, I know that face. I see you.

The thought of it felt strange, inside – an anger, a wanting, coiled up in her belly like an angry black snake.

She smiled, externally – Thalia wouldn’t know, wouldn't know that face, Jaqen's face beatific while he felt the warmth of his orgasm spread through his body. 

Aegon led them through the great house and down a long, long set of stairs, and then through a gate where an indoor pool spread out before them.

 

It was…glorious. It was beyond glorious. The room itself stood two stories tall; a balcony graced one side, black iron railing swirling delicately along the edges. The entire room seemed to have been constructed in Art Nouveau style, with graceful curves. The pool itself was made of black marble, ornamented by a white pattern of graceful leaves, easily long enough to swim laps in. The surrounding tile was black and white veined marble, and another small pool lay just beyond.

Her mouth was open, and she knew it, and still she stared.

Aegon stopped in front of her and smiled again, that bright white heat from him. “I take it this is to your liking? Better than running into Moscow and dealing with…Moscow?”

She nodded. Silenced.

The blonde maid appeared again; Aegon spoke quickly in Russian to her, and she turned and vanished through a side door.

“Champagne,” he said, “and something else, to tide us over.”

_Very well._

Aegon took his shirt off, and she saw how every muscle in his back seemed to glide underneath his skin, how the line of his body stretched and then seemed to stretch again as he took a sudden movement and dove into the water. He surfaced and pulled himself through the water, quick, sharp, efficient strokes, his muscles sleek but visible in his arms.

He dove under the water and surfaced closest to her.

“Little wolf. Just like in Cyprus. Come.”

Little wolf. As her father had called her. As he must have called Lyanna.

_Very well._

She could see Jaqen, somehow still golden amongst the black and white, easing himself langorously into the water, saw how he moved, so differently than Aegon, his wholebeing oozing a laconic sensuousness that Aegon lacked. Where Aegon was sharp, cerebral, almost cruel in his movements, Jaqen was sensual, base.

_Luscious._

She swallowed.

_Too much._

_Control it._

She could only try. She felt herself responding, felt her nipples stiffen under the ridiculous swimsuit, safely hidden under the dress that she wore over it. For a moment she felt ridiculous.

And then she pushed it away, trying to smile, to coax herself back into character. “Quite a sight to see, the both of you in this pool. I’m easily the luckiest woman in Moscow – or, rather, you’re both the luckiest ones _,_ you’ve got each other _.”_

Aegon moved through the water towards her love, her love, and she keened as she saw them kiss – _her beloved, that is what he looks like when he kisses, that is the shape of his jaw when it opens, that is how his brow furrows when he concentrates…and Aegon, the aggressor, Aegon is leading this whole thing, Aegon makes all of this happen and Jaqen just reacts, reacts in such a sensual way._

She realized she was staring and she moved herself away, looking out further. The small pool. A better place to start.

She walked over, trying not to turn her head to stare at the sight of her beloved, and this, this alien creature, kissing him madly.

And she realized that her eyes had started to water, even as the black snake in her belly grew hotter, lower.

She took off her dress and lowered herself into the smaller pool. It was warm, but not uncomfortable; shallower than the large pool. A hot tub, so to speak. It was closest to the wall of windows and the sunlight shone in and took the monochromatic edge off of this part of the room.

She dove under and surfaced; heard the two of them splashing in the larger pool and then dove again, holding her breath as long as she could underwater. The pool was only about four feet deep, she could easily get her footing.

Get her footing…What was she doing here…

When she surfaced she faced the window and heard the splashing recede and then start again, closer this time.

“Sweetest, sweet, sweet Thalia. I’m so sorry. Are we making you uncomfortable?”

It was him, it was Aegon, lowering himself into the water, and she watched as his sleek muscled form blurred as it met the surface of the water, looking at him up and down as his body was submerged and he moved towards her; his eyes raked over her form, her back, her ass and down her legs; his face growing serious.

She kept her head above water and took a deep breath, exhaling as she looked at him.

 

“Not at all.” The words fell out of her mouth, dark, soft.

 

_Do what you want._

She stood and felt the water rush down her front, felt it rush over her stomach, her hair dripping and she moved over to him, the water rush between her legs with each step, watching his eyes darken as he took her in.

And then she pressed herself up against him, her skin wet, clinging to his, and she reached her arm up to his head and pulled him down to her; reaching for that mouth, that beestung lip, still softened by her beloved kissing him.

_Lightning._

He didn’t try to possess her, the way she had seen him with Jaqen. No, his mouth was soft, until it wasn’t, and then as if a hunger had broken through he pushed her back, her feet off the bottom of the pool, and he was holding her up, kissing her, half walking, half swimming and pushing until her back hit the wall, _possessing her now_ , she could feel him up against her, he was hard against her thighs, his hand wrapped all the way around her back as if she was a child, the other hand holding her head to keep her mouth on his…

Oh…

She wanted this, it was a strange power, knowing that Jaqen would watch, and want, and want again…that she might have him as well but this! _this!_ He was something else, a different mouth, a different tongue, a different cadence altogether, a cruelty starting to emerge as he started to lose his control.

And she could feel her own ebbing, this, this man, this creature, kissing her harder and harder, shocks to the system, and she moved her body, so small next to his, up against his and she felt herself whimper when he pulled his head away.

To see Jaqen, staring at her intently, his eyes burning through her, a look she did not recognize as he lowered himself right next to their entangled forms.

Aegon smirked and his voice was guttural with want. “Yesssss….” he hissed and he kissed Jaqen, turning his head, and Arya could not look at the two of them in front of her, but Aegon’s arm had her trapped and her movements were foiled by the feeling of his long fingers, grasping her, then moving to untie the ridiculous swimsuit top.

And take it off.

Jaqen’s face, his face when he saw her tits, his eyes focusing when he saw her nipples and suddenly he moved, moved his head, striking like a cobra, and then his mouth was on one of them, and she realized that Aegon’s other hand had moved as well and was now stroking Jaqen’s back, fingertips moving down the ridge of his spine, and Aegon turned his head again to kiss her, moving his body away so that Jaqen could keep his purchase on her nipples, sucking and then rolling it in his tongue, his mouth feeling so different than Aegon’s…the two of them upon her…

She..she couldn’t….

She felt hands pulling at the bottom of her swimsuit, whose hands she did not know, for she had screwed her eyes up against the sight of them both, and then a hand moving up her thigh, gently, gently touching it, the water whirling around it, and then another hand reaching her, grazing the outside of her cunt, a finger slipping in and she realized that she was no longer being kissed and she opened her eyes to see them, kissing each other, each with their hands on her, aegon’s other hand pulling jaqen’s shorts down, his cock strangely red in the blue of the water, the sound of their breathing bouncing off the water.

She started to move for Jaqen’s cock by instinct and then gasped as one hand moved into her, curled her back to take it in further, and then Aegon grunted and moved his head quickly back to hers, insistent on her mouth; she felt the blunt scrape of his nails as they raked her thigh from the soft sweet insides down the outside and then Jaqen’s hand grabbed back at her, one finger pushing against her anus even as Aegon’s plunged into her cunt.

They were taking her, taking her and the water was too disorienting..she could not focus, the sound of it like yet another lover, insistent…she pulled at Aegon, pulled him up and his mouth broke from hers and settled, flicking and sharp on her neck.

He made a sharp noise and then his eyes settled on hers, still cruel, more alert than she had ever seen him. He reached both hands to cup her ass and raised her out of the water, staring at her cunt as he started to lick the water away, getting closer and closer to the source of her heat until he plundered her.

Jaqen’s fingers trailed away and were then pushing her up against the wall, pushing her head and neck onto the tile floor, pinning her. He stared at her savagely, his own self still in the water, and then he pulled her arms up so that she was caught, only able to twist as Aegon continued to suck on her, and Jaqen’s face covered hers.

And the sweet kiss of her beloved, the tenderness in his mouth, contrasting with the ravaging below.

Oh he could kiss, oh he kissed her, he matched Aegon’s intensity and she realized that one of Aegon’s hands had slipped out, and her body buoyed on the water as Aegon must have been stroking Jaqen, and Jaqen’s body curved towards him, but she didn’t care, didn’t care before his mouth was still on her, and Jaqen’s kisses changed tempo to match the hand that was pulling him, and the mouth that was sucking her, and they were all riding on the same tempo that Aegon was leading, and he frenzied them both, and Arya stopped kissing Jaqen long enough to moan, moan into Jaqen’s mouth and then turned her head, her body thrashing to keep the orgasm rolling through her, panting and panting as Jaqen came as well, came while he watched her.

Jaqen fell over her and they panted, in tandem, and she felt Aegon’s fingers slide into the slickness that he had created.

When she opened her eyes, finally, feeling Jaqen familiarly on her, she reached for his mouth and kissed him again.

And then looked at Aegon, smirking, his lips swollen and his eyes darkened, and an expectant look on his face.

_His turn._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> urm, ahem. there's the big show. pt 1. never wrote one of *those* before. How was it??


	28. cataclysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. I can't believe I just wrote this trash. 
> 
> Shit gets dangerous, and super explicit fan service threesome before I get back to business.

The President was benevolent. 

 

It was a kindness, to be allowed to observe the Targaryen as he entered the Kremlin. A kindness to watch him sit and try to answer questions that she knew he had no answers for.

And it was a blessing to watch him lose his temper after too many questions, a blessing to be behind the mirrored wall, be able to watch his eyes flare, his long fingers clench and release. 

His...disavowal... of her stung, deeply. Discarding. Whatever. It was not done. She had never been denied before.

Before she left Cyprus she sat by her fireplace and stared into the flames, meditating;  _ what had she seen in him?  _ She’d been so convinced. Had she been wrong, again? Maybe her imagination had gotten the best of her. Or her emotions, like any common woman. Built him up, too much. 

She hissed. 

She should have known better. She was no common woman. She was a highly specialized weapon, at the service of the Russian Special Services. And he - he was now a black mark on her reputation.

  
  


When she was little, she remembered sitting by a fire, mesmerized, and putting her hands in the flames. She was sure she’d escape unscathed. She felt no pain, nothing, until her mother pulled her away, shrieking...and she looked at her hands, the flesh seared, burnt; she couldn’t write for a month, bandages...but she hadn’t felt anything...but she had still gotten burned. 

It was her greatest disappointment. And this, somehow this was the second. 

But watching Aegon squirm under questioning, and then get dismissed, dismissed from a meeting that she knew would have puffed him up with that imperious pride...that was a salve.

Thank the gods for the great benevolence of her President. He is wise. He is the light, he is the one. Not only was she able to watch Aegon squirm today, they’d now allow her to go back to Cyprus to work on the man now with him.  Something outside of her usual repertoire. But Aegon, oh that would take careful coordination. Cameras disconnected so the outside world would not see. A number of spies, helping ensure that not only did Aegon’s fall not rouse too much suspicion - but that there were some willing to take the blame. They’d handle it in Cyprus, away from too many of those who might be loyal to the Targaryen name. And they’d handle it soon.

 

It had become...personal to her.  She’d erase her competitor, make it as if Anton Zurali never walked the earth. And if she was able to, that small woman as well.  She obsessed over it, she contemplated every single way it could happen.  And Aegon? If what her intuition was telling her was the truth, he’d meet his own fate very soon.

And her intuition had really only failed her once. She would scrub the source of that failure. Be reborn. 

  
  


\--

_ That was _ ...something else, entirely.

 

Arya lay gasping at the edge of the pool, on her stomach, her breasts flattened on the cool tile, her cheek wet.  And Jaqen’s head was next to hers, his body stretched the opposite direction along the edge, his face just inches away.  A straight line of flesh, stretched against the water, ripples diminishing.

And Aegon, pulling himself out of the pool by the stairs.

She wondered what Jaqen thought.  _ What is was like to watch someone else bring her to her edge - no, someone else helped him, Jaqen was there, on me...  _

Aegon was now out of the pool and she saw his body, dripping and shiny from the water, his erection in front of him, purple like an angry bruise.

He was coming for them, and his eyes were dark, his smile tipping up at the sight of them together. 

She sucked in her breath, and then reached for Jaqen’s face. Even in this strange circumstance, her love…she reached for her constancy, reached out to let him know, tell him when words would not do, oh her love...a quick kiss, just in case. 

She mouthed him, quickly, when she could not reach his mouth fast enough, and then looked up to see Aegon’s smile, tinged with cruelty, a small bit of jealousy but she knew not for who. And then her eyes realized the strange point of view of Aegon’s long, tall body interrupted by his readiness.

“Mmmm. you’re both so beautiful. So delicious, together.” He extended a hand to Arya, to pull her up off the ground. “Truly this was not what I had in mind, when I extended the invitation…you seem to like my friend, here.”

As she stood up he searched her face, and then put a hand on it, slicking her wet hair out of her face, droplets falling down. “You are alright, darling?”

It was hard to meet his eyes, and it was hard to look down with Jaqen below. 

Until it wasn’t, and she bit her lip and nodded, reddening.  His fingers were soft on her face, back on her hair, and he pulled her to him, bending his face down, his body angled, ready; his beautiful face reaching for her mouth, and his hand grazing down under the curve of her ass, stroking the juncture between the top of her thighs and the soft cheek.

She knew Jaqen was watching.

 

_ She knew what he saw.  _

 

It was strangely alright, it felt like their truce had incorporated time and space, flesh and spirit. She felt like she was in some strange bubble. She knew, as she felt her skin prickle alive, that  _ this is a truce this is not in time, this moment is not happening...and it is, and for Jaqen as well it is not happening, we hang suspended... _

 

She groaned and stretched up to Aegon’s mouth.

 

And putting her fingers around him, started to push him lower, lower, slipping down her belly.

She could see Jaqen rock back on his heels to get up, she didn’t see his face, just his eyes lowered, but he was there...right there...and she pushed at Aegon, pushed at him, push against a wall or a table or anything, just…

He broke from her mouth, his eyes narrowed to slits, amused, and he solidified against her movements and pulled her towards a small couch facing the pool, pushing her roughly against the seat, pushing himself in front of her, pushing himself against her face, almost missing her mouth as he gave a shallow thrust towards her face.

She struggled to keep him in her mouth, then tasting the faint chlorine of the pool, licking all of it up, her tongue softening and then pointing to find new ground. She felt the seat of little couch move as Jaqen’s weight moved her, and concentrated anew on flicking her tongue, and then swallowed him as she felt Jaqen’s hands move her hips, pulling them up, forcing her to stand so that he could trace the cleft of her ass.

_ Holy fucking shit.  _ Arya felt like she had sank completely into bonelessness, felt like she was nothing besides flesh and nerves right under her surface. 

He felt so strange in her mouth, he felt so good, and she finally understood his angles and moved her mouth so that it fit him, fit him perfectly, his fingernails digging into her shoulders.  And Jaqen’s, prodding her, pushing her to stand, and then his breath on her, and then his lips touched her, and then…

Arya existed between the two of them, moving from one sensation to the other until she blurred all of it and time vanished until she felt a heat burst from her and pushed her mouth down in response and felt Aegon yelp, digging into her shoulders, pumping into her mouth until she had to gulp and then realize the strange taste, Jaqen lapping and then mercifully slowing his tongue to rest on her, quivering.

  
  
  


She woke up, later, tangled in a pile, Aegon’s head resting on her hip, his arm curved around her ass, Jaqen’s arm strewn over her, her breath falling against his chest.

_ A bubble, a bubble, a moment that does not exist, a different life… _

And a monotone, steady trilling pierced her bubble and she felt herself awaken, first hearing as if outside of herself and then coming sharply into focus as she heard Aegon answer, and start to speak louder, louder, Russian that she did not understand, and his voice turned deadly, swearing.

She had started to sit up, to push away from Jaqen even as he clenched her more tightly when she moved.  And then Aegon’s voice broke through.

“We have to leave. Now.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you go, darlings, a few paragraphs, again in arya's POV, of the tangle...seemed like it was much longer when I wrote it last night. ; )
> 
> very short chap, transition. did you like it? lemme know!
> 
> \---
> 
> ETA: holy hell, sorry, AFK watching my government implode of its own stupidity...update will come soon


	29. Russia gives and she takes

Aside from a checkpoint, a strange checkpoint that waved them on, the ride to Marquette was only strange in how _normal_ it felt; the hills rolled by, traffic started to pick up on the edges of the small town and thickened as they came closer to its brick center.

Jon parked on the street and walked slowly into the house, practically pushing Ygritte back into the car so that he could check first.

He would see if there was anything waiting for them.

With a wary eye he realized that it was empty, untouched.

 

And then the murder of Ygritte’s dad, the burning of his body, the shooting of the drone and the chase seemed even more dreamlike.

 

Ygritte was silent that night. She’d showered, and her hair lay in dark ringlets against one of Jon’s tee shirts as she munched on whatever had been left in the kitchen before they left.

Jon didn’t have anything to say, either...at least not yet.

He’d been decorated, in the Marines; left with a purple heart after an attempt on his life in Afghanistan.  His attacker, strangely never officially identified, but he’d always remember him, looking at him from afar with the scope, and then up close as he jumped out to kill Jon.  Not an Afghani, but someone else, someone working with them.   _A Mountain_ , Arya had said, when she saw him; she wouldn’t explain; she’d known something but even he couldn’t coax it out of her.

Jon’s silence on the matter had proven valuable to his superiors. He’d been grilled, over and over, and when it was done the suits, when they’d finally left him alone with his commander, the General had looked at him with a mix of pride and determination.

General Mormont had told him: anything he needed, just say the word. Anything.

Now he needed something. Information.

Jon had been so intensely loyal to the Marines that his honorable discharge had stung.  Getting back into civilian life had felt like a jolt, a betrayal of his own men.  He’d taken the GI money to go back to school, and then donated that same amount to a scholarship fund; he didn’t need it. He’d gotten the smallest cut of all the Stark children - but he didn’t really care.  At school the process of submerging himself in something... beyond himself... was more than enough, and he decided to teach. But even now, the sight of what was clearly a government drone, the armed forces _turning on their own people, that they were sworn to protect,_  was more than he could stomach.

If there was anything to know, perhaps the Old Bear could help him find out.  

With one eye still wary around the house, he grabbed his phone and computer to see if he could track the old man down.

 

\--

 

Sansa pushed the door open quietly; it was early evening.  She had been gone for hours.

She hadn’t time to shower, hadn’t a place to change; she wondered if the feeling of Petyr on her was as visible as it felt, to her; she could still feel where his mouth had covered hers, knew where the sweat had dried; pulled her hair into the smoothest braid she could.

She set all of her things by the door.  In case she had to take flight, again.

_Wait it out, wait it out._

She summoned something inside of herself, pulled it out and over her, and pulled her neck straight with her spine to walk into the living room to find Willas.  

She finally found him, right where she left him; he had passed out asleep where he sat, where he had grabbed her.

Silently, she grabbed something to sleep in, and something to change into the next morning.  She moved to the guest bedrooom and locked the door, using the little soaps to wash herself, one ear open to hear if he would awaken.

Locked in, laying on the less comfortable bed, she thought and thought and went to sleep early, dreams of Olenna Tyrell haunting her as she slumbered.

 

\---

 

Aegon’s voice was a command. _Now._ It startled her, and order given, an abrupt juxtaposition against the hedonism of the afternoon. Jaqen moved first, quickly, and the motion of his body moved her as well, her leg sliding against his as he started to sit before she could summon herself out of the haze of their warmth.

His movement spurred her: this is not normal. She rose, unsteady, aware of her nakedness, and looked for the dress that she had worn so many hours ago, movements becoming faster as a bloom of fear appeared briefly on Aegon’s face.

She found the dress, walking over to it and aware of the bitemarks on her skin, the movement of her breasts as she walked; she saw that even in Aegon’s new seriousness he glanced over at her movements around the pool. She quickly pulled it on and looked with wide eyes over at them.  Thalia would be scared. Fuck, she herself was _alarmed._  Fuck. Fuck.

No one to help them in Russia, no one at all - only Aegon, and they didn’t really know if he was a loyalist that would offer them up to the president if their identity had been breached, if he would betray the trust of skin that they had established for the day.

Jaqen stood tall and she saw the muscles in his shoulders flex, saw his face assume that quiet seriousness of a gathering storm.  She shivered and followed them out of the great, humid room back up the stairs, leaving the bits and pieces of her suit - and decency - where they had fallen.

She couldn’t say anything, only looked at Jaqen’s face - his eyes bore into her. _Be careful._

Aegon led them back towards their suites, loping up the stairs in great strides; when he made it up to the main level he shouted at his help in Russian.  She was able to pick out words; t _he car, the plane..._ she cursed herself for only having the most rudimentary Russian at her command.

 

Back where their rooms branched off the great hall he finally stopped and looked at them. “This is quite sudden, no? Please, please - change quickly. I will explain to you on the plane, I promise.”

They had spent so much time at the pool, oblivious to anything else around them that Arya was surprised to find that night had fallen, and she moved into her room and grabbed from her suitcase, finding the clothing by feel. Underwear, yes, pants, check. She dressed and pushed everything into her suitcase, running to grab her toiletries out of the bathroom.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror; dark orchid bruises scattered on her neck, from whose mouth she did not know, her eyes tired, still sultry; her hair was all over the place, sex emanating from her very skin.

Even with the cool overlay of fear from Aegon’s behavior she disconnectedly wondered what conquering spirit had taken possession of her body earlier, allowed all of this to happen, _who_ had acted so wantonly... _it was not herself, it could not be…it was no one._

If Aegon was merely electric before, now he had the force of a lightning storm, his eyes dark and narrowed, a defiant cruelty becoming his resting position, abating when he looked over at them as they gathered in the hallway.  

“Aegon. This is so sudden….”  Even with Anton’s voice, with Anton’s intonation she could hear the soft manipulation that Jaqen was attempting, trying to pull information from him.  She realized that he was standing close to her, as if trying to shield her from Aegon’s errant electricity.

Aegon set his jaw firmly. His voice held a finality in it, allowing no further questions.  “Once we are in the air, we will talk then. For now, you must trust me, listen to me. Be safe.”

Jaqen nodded, slowly and then looked at her. “Thalia? You are okay?” The use of her other name to serve as a reminder, a warning. _We’re still playing._

She opened her eyes to look at him, really look at him and nodded. _Yes, I understand._

They made it to the waiting car and Aegon’s face took a protectiveness as he looked at them once they were seated, Arya again in the middle, this time not hesitating to lean up against Jaqen, his solidity enveloping her, as the two of them paid rapt attention to Aegon.

“I will keep you safe.” Aegon's words were hardly better than a growl and then he fell silent, reaching one arm to drape over Arya’s legs and resting the hand on Jaqen’s knee, his pale face, his beautiful face impossible to read as they made their way back to the airplane.

Comfort to rest in Jaqen’s arms, comfort to lean back against him; comfort to feel his heart thudding behind her, and most of all, the comfort made a bridge to bravery from the strangeness of the past few days, the strangeness of their flight.

They pulled up on the tarmac, the car itself merely feet away from Aegon’s plane.  He got out of the car quickly, quickly; the pilot came out to see him and again the rapid fire of Russian that was beyond her comprehension. He looked agitated, rushed; Arya slid out as quickly as she could behind him, moving up the walkway onto the plane itself, pausing to make sure Jaqen was behind her; when she was sure he was, and safely, she entered the plane and sank down into one of the great leather chairs.

Jaqen sat opposite her and his concern was written clearly on his face; he kept her eyes. _Be careful. Be careful._

She nodded imperceptibly and then they both looked up at Aegon, bursting into the plane, the mechanical noise of the plane door closing, locking.

He crumpled on a chair across from them and breathed in for a moment, steepling his fingers, his eyes closed.  And then he breathed in, straightening himself, his face again becoming arrogant, self-assured, pulling his body forward over his knees.

He opened his eyes.

“Darlings. So sorry to cut it short. As I said, Russia gives and she takes. Luckily I still have friends exactly where I need them to be. Angels, really, looking out for me.”

Arya swallowed her words and let Jaqen lead. Let him lead this, he knows this...and in a moment she saw his face again, but he was Anton, the way he held his face; a different person. A rich Turkmenistani baron, someone who deserves answers.  Oh _Jaqen._ She longed to crawl over to him again, curl up on him again.

And Anton replied. “Angels indeed. Now, can you tell us what in the fuck is happening?”

Aegon frowned for a moment, and then reached over to grab Jaqen’s head. He gave him a deep kiss.

Arya realized that her jealousy did not pique.

 _Guess that’s one way to cure it…_ she was aware of her swollen sex, sore from their attentions earlier in the day.

When they broke Aegon smiled. “Making sure that your full attention is on me. This is...a long story.”

Arya stretched on the chair, and Aegon began to tell his tale.

“Anton, surely you know of my family? Surely you did your homework before meeting me for this deal? We are...entwined with the fate of Russia. For better or for worse. We have been the luckiest and the most tragic story.  Russia is everything. And nothing, less than nothing, it is a negative, it sucks all that you are and more back into a great yawning mouth, feeding on you.”

Arya raised an eyebrow, and Aegon looked over at her. “Ah, sweet Thalia. More than you had bargained for, indeed, on your holiday. The United Kingdom will seem so quaint, in comparison, no? I forget that you do not understand me like Anton here. Very well. You can...extrapolate, no?”

Arya nodded at him, a good girl; _Thalia._

“Darlings, my family had not always stood for what was right - my blood, and the blood of my blood, has murdered, pillaged...we have done everything that we needed to, and certainly everything that was expected of us. To help rule the country. For generations.”  He breathed in, and Arya watched as his face, white and silver, with those dark eyebrows highlighting the unearthly eyes...his face was the canvas for so many emotions, and he let them pass, and continued.

“The Soviets merely beat us down, but we did not disappear; no, we adapted. Even as we died, one by one. And now my role as the last Targaryen is to make our President look good - no, more than that - to make him successful.”

“Our president is nothing, no one. He is a spy turned ruler, dictator. And now possibly one of the richest men in the world. But he is nothing without us - without my family’s wealth, propping him up, without the rest of his cabinet.”  His voice turned bitter.

ARya was fascinated. _If only she could record this, if only she could write this down…_

“He has become more and more greedy, yes, it is not enough for him to focus on Russia, although the gods know that his people need his help more than anything else. No, now he is determined to wreak havoc with the rest of the world. He’s like a child that wants every toy but does not know what to do with them. And everyone suffers, while he plays.”

Aegon straightened again and the roar of the plane quieted as it climbed up, away from his house, away from Moscow.

“And I no longer wish to help him. Enough. He does not help the people of Russia, they starve, even now, even in the 21st century, they starve, they feed him. _They feed him._ ”

His face looked fierce.

“I disobeyed an order. There will be consequences. In Cyprus I am safer. I no longer wish to serve him.”

He looked at Jaqen again, although the look was more transactional; a cunning look. “You, Anton, you hold my ticket out. Holding the wealth to the east of Russia, controlling the gas supply...well, that pipeline...if it makes sense, I take the pipeline and I disappear from Russia. And leave him with nothing. He set up a test for me - what a fool, what a simple test, beneath me.”

Arya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Fuck fuck _._..the Russian president was known to take out any dissension, immediately, harshly. She knew Jaqen held nothing, sand in his fingers, whatever he thought he was getting from Jaqen was a dream, cooked up by Varys, to get information from him and then let him die... _fucking_ Varys….

 

_Aegon was a dead man._

 

She couldn’t speak.

He looked at them both; apparently Jaqen wore a similar look on his face.

“My darlings. Don't worry, my loves. Now you know. You’re traveling with a wanted man. I...apologize, but only for putting you in danger. I would not trade the time with you, not for the world.”

 _Oh! Aegon._..his voice was wistful, resigned. He was running. And he would be caught. He would die. 

She felt her heart thumping. And so would they, if they were with him.

She found her voice, smaller than she had expected.

“Won’t he know to find you in Cyprus?”

“Perhaps. But let him find me, first. Staying at Dragonstone would make it too easy. And besides, our beautiful friend Anton here, once I purchase that pipeline, I am untouchable.”  Aegon raised an eyebrow and lowered it, looking down at the ground, his lips drawn together.

Jaqen did not let his face change.

 

Oh, Aegon...they were complicit in his death, he would have nothing, _he would risk it all for nothing…_

Arya could not still herself.

She stood up and walked over to Aegon; the plane was steady enough, now, climbing above the Russian countryside, for her to move freely in the cabin.  She walked in front of him and bent down to kiss him. Tenderly, tenderly, his warm mouth opening for her, her arms moving around his neck, the better to hold him close, the better to breathe the common air between them, to give to him, and she kissed him over and over, a penance for both of their sins. 

_Sweet kisses for a dead man._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you still with me, plotwise?
> 
> tiny little hiatus. vacation and working on a quick three chap ficlet: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11558226


	30. a lie

_ A man does not feel anything for his targets. _

A man is no one, when his duties take over, he becomes a shell; he is merely a vessel created in the most optimum form and character. so as to ensure that whatever  _ must  _ happen  _ does _ . A vessel does not feel. A vessel just is.

A target would be identified, and their heinous duties would need to be stopped; a gift would be given and death would be justice. Many had received that gift; traffickers in both children and arms; terrorists, and murderers.  It was simple. Jaqen received a name, and the death he’d bring would be a gift for the lives that had been impacted. 

This mission was not so simple. There was no death, not by his hand. And the price that he’d paid for this mission could be the union he shared with his bride.  Not to mention the loss of Aegon’s life, surely taken in fury by the Russian government, a fearsome enemy. 

And an unfamiliar sense of guilt washed over him as he looked at Arya cradled up against Aegon, her lips having left his and her head now pushed up against his neck. 

Perhaps it had been too long since he had undertaken one of Varys’ missions. Perhaps too much had changed. 

He started to wonder if he  would ever be able to become no one again, to not feel guilt, not feel want, not feel loss. 

 

She moved. 

Her eyes were starting to betray her.  The skin underneath had darkened and her face was drawn. She was tired, and her eyelashes fluttered until her eyes closed. Jaqen could not help but notice her body tucked up perfectly on Aegon, her legs curled underneath her and one of Aegon’s long arms wrapped around her.

He watched them, watched Aegon breathe her scent in, knew that her body would be warm up against his. He made up his mind: Varys would need to be notified, this farce would need to cease. Any information Varys was looking for had been made clear.  There was no need to push this any further. Aegon had endangered himself reaching out for the reward that they had dangled, the pipeline that would vanish into thin air as soon as he grabbed it. 

_ This pipeline would be Aegon’s undoing.  _

No, a man does not feel anything for his targets, typically. 

 

And perhaps he did not truly feel anything, now, so to speak; perhaps it was just the sweet ache that still thrummed through him, the soreness in his thighs, the blissful state of spending himself so many times  _ on, in  _ the two of them.  _ This is not a feeling, this is just a mindless physical reaction, hormones surging through his body... _ But he resolved all the same to see if Varys might be able to intervene on Aegon’s behalf. 

_ Save him.  _

 

He closed his eyes against all of it, all of it. He wondered just how a girl would feel when all was said and done, when they were left alone together, the ragged edges of their shared betrayal left in front of them, the absence of Aegon’s energy leaving them alone for the first time.  He struggled to sleep, and wondered just how damaged himself and a lovely girl would be. The lull of the plane’s engine was a mercy, blocking the worst of his thoughts and he let himself doze fitfully.  

When the plane started to get closer to land the cool pilot’s voice pierced opened his eyes.  Cyprus was emerging, still dark, the lights of the island in relief against the dark sea. He watched her arm stretch, saw her legs unfurl from his lap, saw her eyes open and widen sleepily, he noted the soft movements of Aegon waking, his arm tensing and releasing. 

_ Cyprus. What is next.  _

Aegon pressed the top of her head to his mouth as she stirred, and she crooked an arm around his neck and then looked over at Jaqen, almost guiltily and then moved over to her own seat, her eyes round. 

_ Ah, now you see, lovely girl, you’ve been consumed as well. _

Aegon stretched his arms up to the ceiling and glanced out the window and then back in.  He pulled his phone out and frowned at what he saw. “No service yet.”

His face changed again, that lightning flash of emotion changing, a warmth flooding his eyes as he looked over at Jaqen and then back to a more alert state. 

“I have some business to handle before I am ready to handle the paperwork. Anton. It is nearly morning. I’ll have my driver drop you off, but you’ll need to meet me back at my office….” he stopped mid-sentence, as if realizing. “No, perhaps my office won’t do. It is known. You, however, are not. I’ll meet you back at your apartment, no, at noon?”

Noon. A man had seven hours to plan his next move. And to figure out what to do with a girl. 

Apparently Arya was also on Aegon’s mind. He looked over at her and Jaqen faltered for a moment at the sheer gentleness on Aegon’s face as he peered over at her. 

“Sweet Thalia. I’m so sorry. We cut this short, keep you safe.” 

Still sleepy, she murmured her response, her voice sounding so young. “I’ll go with him. I’ll wait with him. I’ll see you later?” She gestured at Jaqen.

Aegon smiled and the tip of his mouth quirked up; he cocked an eyebrow at Jaqen, amused. 

“My two have become close, no? Yes, yes...that will do…”

When Aegon looked away from them she stared at Jaqen and as he caught her eyes he wondered what could possibly be dancing behind them.   _ Finally, alone with his bride.  _

 

_ Would a girl be furious, would a girl be tender, or would a girl simply want to know how they could possibly extricate themselves.   _

 

He swallowed, the thought of finally being able to speak to her without the faces that they wore in front of Aegon, without the lies...her earlier fury, was it washed away by the sheer force of Aegon between them?

_ A man does not fear. _ ..a lie. A man does, when he worries that his bride could forsake him, could leave Limassol hurt, angry, hungry for something else. 

The plane bumped as it landed and the whine of the engine grew louder.  The long black car came to meet them, and no one spoke as they entered it, Arya woven in between the two of them. Aegon’s eyes faraway and unseeing as they drove through the still dark streets of Limassol.

When they arrived at Jaqen’s apartment, Jaqen slid out and the driver grabbed their bags, not meeting their eyes.  Aegon got out, as well, a long slip of white sinew; he bent over to Arya’s face, pushing long pale fingers into her hair and tipping her mouth up to meet his.

A man watched, outside of his body, as he saw her form soften, saw her neck curve up and her eyes close against Aegon.  He watched as no distance remained between the two of them and they clung, soundlessly kissing. He saw as Aegon broke, pressing his mouth against her and whispering something that he could not hear; he saw a girls eyes darken and look down, that sadness coming into them again, her hurried turn to guard herself from her own emotions.

Aegon walked to him and kissed him as well, more brutally, another savage ozone and salt tasting shock, his tongue punishing and then he retreated as well.  Aegon growled in his ear.

“Be ready. Later today, we will sign the paperwork, and then you will take me to Turkmenistan, take me to Ashgabat so that we can see this pipeline, see my freedom.  I will tell my pilot to prepare.”

Jaqen swallowed, and reached out for his own kiss, imbuing it with the tenderness of goodbye and then paused to look into the violet eyes above his own, gripping Aegon’s arm, clutching it. 

“Aegon. Keep yourself safe.”

Aegon got back into the car and Jaqen and Arya stood rooted to the spot, watching it drive away from the apartment that Varys had chosen, drive away from them both, until it vanished around a corner, the early morning sun starting to rise and color the streets of Limassol. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short little chapter to kickstart my writing motivation. sorry for the delay, a quick vacation, a tiny crack-fic distraction and busy catchup at work chased off my muse for a bit. 
> 
> love your comments, hope you like this tiny chap!


	31. china doll

The Russian president was pleased, despite the minor….shakeups in his inner circle.

 

The Americans were even more pliant than he’d hoped for. They were begging for him, and they didn’t even know it. The northern and southern dissenters had been handled. The American president had been so easily duped, it was unbelievable. Of course, the amount of information that the Russian president had on his American counterpart…well, he’d only need to threaten to drip it out, and the American would belly up, like a hunting dog that had missed his bird, compliant, apologetic. Shamed.

The Targaryen was still a problem, but more symbolic than anything else. The Russian president dismissed it, an errant thought: in the glow of all of the wins to be handed to him, unwittingly until it was too late, by the Americans, there was no way the Targaryen name would be a threat in the countryside. None. The people would rally to him 

He’d allow the red woman to handle the Targaryen. She’d get the first try at it, poor woman; he’d heard rumors that her failure had made her come practically unhinged.

Such a loyal servant. He’d allow her the pleasure, then, of retribution, allow her to serve him by taking the Targaryen out. 

At this point, he was an easy target; and just so long as the hit did not happen in Russia, surrounded by the people who had loved generations of his family, yes, and feared them – it would be safe. Easy to cover.Yes, better than he had thought. 

Yes, better than he had thought. The American President had finished most of the work of silencing his people. The borders had been secured. They were ripe to be overtaken, by force and by words, by policy and by infiltration, taken and finally made subservient to the one true superpower.  Finally. Finally. 

He lifted his glass. The best French wine. One thing that the Motherland could not produce; pity.

 

 

\--

 

Sansa woke up to the light streaming through the southeastern window, confused for a moment. Her stomach hurt, her mouth was dry, her eyes hard to open.

Unfamiliar bed, unfamiliar light: she looked around the room, eyes wildly moving until she realized. The guest room. The events of the night before came back to her and she pushed them out, momentarily, looking at the room.

She remembered furnishing it; picking out a robin’s egg blue desk that she knew Cat would love; a collection of lake and ship themed curios, driftwood picked from the shores at Winterfell; family pictures of the Starks; the careful setting of candles, all designed to make the guests that would come to visit her and Willas - especially set up to appeal to her parents.

 Willas’ voice narrated her memories. When they had bought the flat right before their wedding, he had taken so much pride in showing her all of the rooms; they’d walked through and planned their life. Rather, he’d carried her through; she squirmed and giggled as he hefted her through the house, the slight limp belying how effortless he tried to make it seem, his pride evident as they made their way through each room of the elegant flat.

_Our guests will stay with us here; do you think your mother will see the Lake Superior images? Our kitchen, new stainless appliances, let’s make sure that we have enough room to entertain. Sansa, this closet was just meant for you – and let’s have it built out further. And fill it. Anything your heart desires. Anything._

 

_Willas._

 

In the morning light, away from Petyr, away from yesterday, her stomach turned, her eyes started to burn. _He’d had Willas’ grandmother killed. Nothing else had been able to take out Olenna Tyrell, years of political enemies, business foes…nothing had taken her out. Except Petyr…Petyr taking Olenna out…for her._

And she wanted him all the same for it. She stared at the curve of his lip as he told her, watched his fingers move and she took him, fucked him even after she knew about, the most lewd and obscene she’d ever been in her life, over and over.

The thought of it, oh….

She jumped from the bed into the unused, perfectly arranged guest bathroom and felt the contents of her stomach empty into the toilet, wiping her face carefully and rinsing the acid out of her mouth.

When she looked up in the mirror, she saw herself. Her eyes, darkened, smudged underneath, swollen. There were a few bruises at the base of her neck; Petyr. Her hair was mussed.

She didn’t recognize herself.

Had she really listened to Petyr confide, proudly, that he had killed Olenna? That she’d leave Willas only to take the blood money that Petyr had hastened into an account?

And who was she, that her first reaction was lust, to celebrate it? Her “freedom”? What had he done to her? No, worse, what had she allowed?

The guest room, set up so carefully for Ned and Catelyn, mocked her. She felt the shame of her failure, the loss of her humanity, in front of the staged, meticulous display of the artifacts of her childhood ho­me.

She didn’t know this person. Not at all, even though the long red hair was familiar, even though she saw each of her carefully painted fingernails clenched…she didn’t know this person, did not know herself in the harsh light of day.

 

Sansa curled back up in the bed and stared out the window, not seeing, not thinking, until she heard the noise of someone walking through the house and she started.

Willas was awake, she knew his footsteps.

And of course he’d been holed up in the house.

She drew back, almost frightened.

Willas. She didn’t want to see him, not with what she knew now, not with his curious behavior the other night. She realized that she was holding her breath.

He was in the kitchen, now his steps walked slowly through the living room and to the landing, where her shoes lay, ready for her in case she had to leave again quickly.

Visible for him to see, if he noticed, if he was looking. _He was._

“Sansa!” He raised his voice and she heard the door knob rattle, the flimsy lock only keeping it together. “Sansa, are you in there? Sweetheart, come out…I’m sorry.”

 

_Fuck._

 

She cleared her throat. “Willas. I’m coming.”

She quickly pulled her shirt up to cover her neck and smoothed her ragged hair as best she could, splashing water on her face in the guest bathroom. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and walked out to the living room, past Willas, and sank down in the corner of the couch, clutching a pillow in front of her as if to stop his eyes from seeing her.

He was contrite.

“Sansa. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me last night.” His eyes looked down, guilty; she saw that they were watering.

She didn’t say anything. What to say, what do you say to your husband who’s apologizing to you when you’re in the wrong?

She only mutely looked at him, not allowing herself the luxury of looking away from him when those brown eyes met hers.

He sat down near her and stroked her calf. “I’m so sorry. I’m just…it’s just…all of this is so much, and nothing is right, not my family, not my work, not you…I feel like I’m losing you, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you…” his breathing quickened into a small sob and she looked up at his arm, followed it back up to his face, leaner than Petyr, golden brown hairs on his arms, his face still handsome, erudite…and looking at her as though he had lost something so precious to him.

“Willas. I understand.” The words choked her, a false benevolence, the only thing she knew how to give him right now, as sickening to her as the thoughts earlier in the morning.

His hand played on her calf for a bit, that gentle stroking, no more than what a parent would do for a child who needed comfort.

“I need something to be normal again, Sansa, and I’m not sure what that would even be right now. I need all of this to be over, all of Grandmother’s death and expenses and the fighting over her will and the fucking exhumation, need it to be over.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow, Willas didn’t swear. She reached an arm out from behind the pillow and put her hand on his, calmly.

“Willas. You need to go back to work. You need to get back into your routine. You’re lost without it – all the rest of this will feel better if you’ve got some normalcy in your days. Call your office this afternoon and get dressed and go to work tomorrow. Clean out your inbox if that’s all you can do. But go do something.”

The advice fell from her lips and it sounded right, it sounded like something she would say, some counsel she would give, but she knew it was a lie, the only thing she could possibly say at the moment.

If she told him about Petyr, now, he would break.

And if he really knew…well, there would be no putting that back together, not at all.

She needed time, needed to buy some time. This was all too much, and she sat like an empty china doll, her expression just blank enough to pass for whatever anyone else wanted to see in it. 

She leaned over to give him a kiss, a quick kiss, and cursed herself inwardly – _liar! you fucking liar!_ – as her lips brushed over his and she lied again.

 

“Everything will be alright, Willas.”

\--

 Melisandre gathered her things. She would be taken to the military airport tonight.  She would find him. And the rest of them, she'd let him watch as she was able to take their lives, extinguish their lives. 

The President had allowed her a chance to take out the Targaryen. She would not fail.

She lit candles and stared into them, a form of prayer, of meditation; looking for the shapes that would guide her, tell her if she was on the right path.  

The flames danced and rose and fell but she still saw nothing, nothing inside of them. 

It was not a good omen.

She stared until the candle guttered down, flickered and then went out, a puff of smoke only marking where the flames had betrayed her.

 

 

 

 

 


	32. MINE....

Jon had tried to call Mormont, tried to call the old bear, looked up every contact that he had and then tried again.

Marquette was still eerily calm, quiet; there was no news of any incidents at the border. In fact, there was hardly any news at all of any import – he started to watch the news waiting to hear of anything happening inside the borders, outside the border – nothing.  Feel good stories, rallies of the president – and on the other side, racially motivated killings, the type of sensationalist news that makes people of a certain ilk suck in their gut and bemoan anyone without a sense of nativism.

It felt eerily like propaganda.

He watched, and he taught his classes; kinesiology, movement, the science behind it; appropriate for a man who had lived with the strength of his body, tried to muster it.  Classes at the university were as normal, a twee sense of strangeness as the October nights cooled and the days tried to regain their normal heat, but the sun was somehow ineffectual.

It was on the way to see Ygritte at work, after a day of classes, a few days after they’d returned from their horrors, that he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out as he was walking away from the university.

“Jon.”  The Old Bear’s voice was still strong, gruff, even though the edges of it were creaking ever so slightly.

“General.  I’m glad to hear your voice. Can you speak freely, right now, sir? I have some concerns that are…sensitive.”  Jon could feel relief running through his veins.

“Jon, I saw that you had called, but I was in the middle of something that I could not get away from.  You sounded frantic.”   There was a slight rebuke in the words; Marines don’t get frantic.

He continued. “Jon, you were one of the best I’d ever worked with. Yes, I am on a secure line.  And, I’m glad to hear your voice, as well.” There was a softening.

Jon unconsciously stood up straighter.  “Sir. Yes, sir. Permission to speak, sir.”

“At ease, Jon – what’s going on?”

“I was hoping that you might be able to tell me.  Sir, I didn’t know who to turn to.  I’m seeing…it’s…well, sir, I have seen evidence that Homeland Security – or some other arm of the force – is attacking civilians.  Up here, up in the Upper Peninsula of all places.  Sir, my girlfriend’s father was…” the red hairs of Ygritte’s father on his face, the red blood sinking into the earth around him “murdered, sir, shot on her property.”

 

Old Jeor Mormont went silent and Jon feared for a moment that he had said too much.   _He’s the only person that I trust…if I can’t trust him I can trust no one, save Ygritte, save my family…_

When the gravelly voice starting speaking again, the faint New England accent coming through Jon exhaled, even as he had to strain to hear it.

“Jon. Yes. You’re not mistaken. There’s a scourge happening at all of the borders; north, south…we’ve seen hundreds murdered in the past week.”

“Sir? Hundreds?” _The thought that Jeor would support this was untenable…_

“Jon,  this is highly classified.  Something is greatly off right now with the administration. Dangerous. We’ve quickly moved from a republic to an autocratic society, and it’s getting worse by the day.  I’m working on this, working with foreign intelligence to see where it stems from and I don’t like anything that I’m hearing.  Our covert actors are placed in Belgium, Russia, Cyprus – they’re starting to close in but I’m afraid it might be too late.  Too much dallying, as well – never send in a civilian to do a marine’s job, but there were no marines on hand.”

Again Jon stood slackjawed.  “Sir?  But you’re working in…”  Jon wracked his brain to remember where Jeor had landed after declining the offer to join the President’s cabinet.  To hear him speak against the Administration in any form felt off, foreign: the Commander in Chief always earned respect, no matter what one’s own politics were…

“I’m working for the citizens of the United States, Jon, and if I have to circumvent the government itself I will do so.  It has become clear to me that the current leadership is failing us, and _we are in crisis.”_

The old man sighed.

“It’s a different type of war, Jon.”

“Sir, are we safe? I believe that we were witnessed, sir. One of the drones was shot out of mid-air…by my girlfriend…and I’m not sure if we were caught by its camera.  We were up in the Porcupine Mountains – sparse land, no idea why anything of interest to the drone would be up there – and when we made it back, was when we found Ygritte’s father. He was shot, General, shot by our own soldiers, I can tell.”

“Safe? No.”  The voice rumbled. “No one is safe right now, Jon. And we’re about to get bombed by the Russians, as well, if the chatter that I’m picking up is to be believed.  And my sources, my intelligence is very trusted on an international level.”

Jon heard the man spit before he continued.  “Those Homeland Security forces are undertaking a dark war, Jon, against all of us.  None of them are to be trusted.   The drone…did you take it?”

 

“No. We didn’t want to take it. I recognized it as something our troops would use, knew about the tracking device.”

“Good.  Leave it.”  Jeor sighed again and continued. “Jon, you’re going to need to prepare yourself to leave, if you have to. It may seem strange that all of this is happening, but there’s no normalcy right now.  The borders have been closed off, that’s why you’re seeing so much activity so far north.  Any body of water, any state with a border to Canada has been savaged.  This administration has waged war on it’s people, backed it up with propaganda, sold us all out for a few trillion dollars.  If you have to, go south, or barricade up at your family home and don’t come out. But for now, keep your head down, don’t speak up.”

“Sir…”  Jon was at a loss for words.

“Jon.  I can’t say that I have this situation in hand. But I am working towards a resistance. Keep your head down.  I love you like a son, Jon, and those are not words that I use lightly.  I need you to stay safe. When this is over and done with, I’ll have a place for you…in DC.  May the gods hope that we make it until then.”

  


\--

  


When Aegon’s car was out of sight they turned. Arya followed Jaqen, into the modern building, up into the stainless and glass elevator, silently avoiding his eye contact, and watching his feet as he walked into the hallway and opened the door to the apartment that Varys had so carefully curated for Anton.

_Alone with Jaqen, for the first time in weeks..._

And he shut the door behind him and turned to her, pulling her face up to look at him.

She saw him, saw the worried furrow of his brow, saw the tightness in his lips, pushing his lower lip down, saw the beginnings of time and worry on his face, felt the gentleness of his finger underneath her chin.

And she kept her eyes on him.   _I don’t even know where to start..._

But his eyes were soft, that golden color, flecked with green and blue, and the longer he stared at her the softer they got, the more relaxed his face became, and she could feel it, feel him; something warm emanated from him, and finally she could not take it any more and pressed up against him.

His mouth - she had missed it so much - of course in the presence of Aegon she had felt it, but now it was just for her and his mouth searched hers, his tongue flicking off of her teeth and his lips gently pulling on hers, and then his whole body was around hers, his arms covering her, and she melted into him.

_Oh Jaqen..._

The anger had melted away from her in the past few days, but the worry was still there - now punctuated with something else, a shyness -what had she done between the two of them…

“Arya. Arya Stark. Lovely girl. A man is so happy to have his beloved, have her here in his arms…”

Hearing his voice, his strange accent back, unclouded by Anton’s words...she blinked back tears.

He picked her up and took her over to a great table in the center of his flat.

He knelt in front of her, pulling her shoes off, lifting her to pull her clothes off, setting her down naked in front of him.

“Arya Stark, my bride...my beloved...do not be angry with me, Arya, you are mine….” His fingers teased up and down her legs as he stood in front of her and she saw a timidity in his face, even though she sat exposed in front of him, marked by his own mouth and that of Aegon’s, the bruises impossible to distinguish, to remember through the haze of skin that they had just made…

_He left me, he left me for this job, he left me and did not tell me..._

The tears started to fall, his gentle softness creating an impossibility.. _.if he loved me so, why did he not tell me…_

She found her voice and it was small, choked.  “Jaqen, why did you not tell me? About this mission, about Aegon, about...any of it?  Why did you not call me?  I’m sorry I came, I’m sorry that I interrupted your work...but I’m so...upset...that you didn’t tell me.  Do you not...our life together...is it not enough?”

And as the words came out she remembered her anger, before, the driving pulse that had led her to Cyprus.

“And you didn’t tell me - and I was so worried - and I had to come find you, stupid, stupid - and found you with him...oh, _Aegon…_ ”

The impossibility of all of it was too much and she felt her body shudder, felt the sobs start to come out.

“Lovely girl, a man is so sorry. You are my beloved, you are my life...but a man needed to see if he still had value, still could contribute...and then a man did not know if he would succeed.  I was afraid, Arya..” his eyes flashed for a moment “afraid that I was no longer able to handle myself, afraid that I was becoming a shadow...and wanted to tell you when I had wrapped everything up, to celebrate…”

He reached to kiss her and she met his mouth, understanding kisses, so familiar, his languid movements intoxicant, and she wrapped her arms around his head and felt his body, clothed, push up against her skin.

“A man did not expect Aegon to be...well, Aegon...it was too much…”

She nodded...she had not expected the sheer force of lightning, of air, of everything that Aegon was, dominating and sweet by turns, otherworldly...hypnotic...

He saw her head move, saw the nod and she felt a fierceness spark in him.  

“A girl also was consumed by him. A man knows. Strange to see his bride in the arms of another, strange to hear her beg for another, right in front of him.”

His mouth became harder, his kisses faster, fiercer and his fingers moved up her skin, tracing underneath the curve of her breast, his hips starting to push up against her.

He moved his mouth to her neck, biting gently at the crook of it, trailing his mouth down to her shoulder and to the soft flesh of her arm and sunk his teeth in, his fingers pushing down to her belly and driftng into the soft hairs at the start of her.

“Yes, a girl _begged_. Begged for another. And a man watched her, saw her mouth open…”  He bit her again and she gasped at the pain of his teeth, timed with a finger moving up into her, slipping into the folds of her cunt and touching the walls of her...oh Jaqen, exactly how she wanted to be touched by him, oh her love…

Her eyes were half-closed, _her lover, her husband,_ enveloping her with the lazy splay of his muscles, the soft lips closing over the marks he had left…

“Yes, a man saw her...saw her offer herself to another….”  he started to pull his pants down with his other hand, shaked himself impatiently to allow them to fall, the movement of his legs to struggle out of them, and the other hand stroking, stroking…the familiar fingers moving, each new angle flickering in some other way...she felt herself wetten around them...and pulled at his shirt to feel his skin, feel him against her...so good, so familiar, just him…

“Yes...a man sees...a man knows….” his voice was silk, slipping into her ear, the warm breath steady, his hand back and cupping her against the movement of his fingers…

_“A man loved it…”_

WIth that he thrusted up against her, and pushed her thighs roughly apart, moving his head in between her thighs, the hair tickling up against her legs, his tongue stretched out to meet her nub and then his lips closing around it.

He rolled it against his tongue and then sucked, hard, the sensation too much and she arched her back and bucked to meet his mouth, to meet his fingers still slipping around inside of her; _Jaqen, you are mine, mine...mine...mine…._

She heard herself speaking, not realizing the moment when her thoughts crossed into words, and he reacted to her voice, abruptly pulling his head from her thighs, pushing her flat against the table, climbing up over her.

“Mine, you are mine, Arya Stark...I can taste him on you, I taste him in you...but you are mine….”  without further words he gripped her shoulders and in one movement his cock, thick, familiar, delicious, pushed against her cunt, opening her and sinking in as deep as he could.

He started to move, his weight pressing her on the table, agonizingly slow.  She could not think, she could only feel...mine...mine…

He growled.  “A man watched, a man saw...and his lovely bride dancing on the other’s cock was too much to bear….”  The words were filthy, lewd, raw and with each sentence he thrusted almost painfully hard and then resumed the slow movements.

She was dying, the pace was too slow, she wanted him! him! _Yours…_

“He wants you, and you want him...and I will take you and be taken by you...and I will fuck…”

She didn’t even hear, the sensations too deep in her, the ache almost sated and then back as he moved himself against her and she whined, whined to hold him, to keep him…

“He wanted you and took you, and nothing was more satisfying than watching him...nothing until you both took me...but nothing is..nothing is….” he was grunting and she felt herself banging against the table, the wood becoming warm under her, her legs pinned around him…” _but you are mine….mine….”_

He thrashed, holding her against him, thrashed inside of her and she clenched to hold him, to keep that perfect moment of him all around her, in her, filling her and felt herself go over the edge, his voice growling in her ear, louder, senseless, teeth on her neck and then biting down and pushing against her as he throbbed and the heat of him against her, possessing her, holding her too tightly as they both came down.

The fierceness had not abated, even as she felt him pulsing out in her, the muscles in his arm did not unclench even as she felt him start to soften, spent, and he held her so tightly that she could feel each fingertip pressing against the tendons of her, the muscles of her.

After a few moments he moved, and picked her up, laid her out on the couch.

“Arya Stark. You are my soul. In any configuration, in any form, I will always love you. You are mine.”

  
  



	33. your future service is required

Finally. He had missed her so badly. Precious against him, he was larger than himself, he felt his entire being radiate when he looked at her, her eyes fighting against sleep after he had tucked up against her. His love, his love - all encompassed in her form, the lines of her face so familiar. He untangled himself from her, easing a small blanket over her form.  Let her sleep. 

She needed it so badly. The last few days had been emotionally and physically overwhelming. Sleep, beloved. He saw her fighting against it, she tried to speak and then he’d stroke her forehead until her eyes closed again, until the shudder of her breath started to even out, her chest rose and fell with the exhausting, satisfying arrival of sleep;  _ oh lovely girl, save your strength, it is possible that you could need it later… _

 

Besides, he had about six hours to figure out what would happen next, and a man could not sleep with that duty undone.

 

A man picked up his phone to contact Varys and slowly slid the glass door open to the outdoor patio, closing it behind him.

“Jaqen. A not entirely unexpected delight, speaking to you. How are you enjoying your rendez-vous?”  Varys’ voice was smooth, as always.

A man tried to keep his voice low.  It would not do, to wake a girl, and besides he sensed some other motivation behind Varys, felt it in his bones. Perhaps he had been away for too long, perhaps he no longer was able to seamlessly understand the mission that Varys had wanted to undertake. But he did understand one thing, if not the reason behind it: the picture of a girl with the dark-haired man; meant to inflame him, to anger him. 

“A girl comes, and you knew. You knew the whole time. Are you mocking me, Varys? This is...not a good situation.”

But Jaqen was not quick to anger, and he stored this away, kept it to use another day. He spoke evenly, deliberately.

Varys sighed, long-suffering.  “No, it is not...but also,  _ it is _ . Your target has chosen wisely.  At least,” a giggle, “as far as we are concerned.”  

“Aegon wants to fly to Ashgabat. He wants to see, see the pipeline. And there is another matter...the matter of the Kremlin, angered at him. We _ fled _ Moscow. This is far more dangerous than anticipated.”

Jaqen had been turning over the thought of Aegon coming to his apartment later, to sign the papers, his plane waiting..waiting to see the lie in person, the false pipeline with the Russians at his heels, clamoring for his head.

“Yes, well...we can make something appear in Ashgabat, if we need to. Beautiful city - strange, but beautiful. The capital of Turkmenistan. Yes, I can get someone to prepare a flat for you, possibly an office. Keep tabs on your messages, we will send your intel when it is ready.”  The sound of fingers over a keyboard; Varys was already starting to work.

“What happens then.” A man’s voice was flat.

Varys giggled. “Well, then, you can leave. Leave him in Turkmenistan. Our orders were only to see if he was loyal to the Kremlin, or not. Clearly he is not. You could leave right now, if you  _ really _ wanted to. Your mission is over. I’m happy to indulge you, should you need resources, cover to continue this farce in Turkmenistan, you’ll have them...but please, feel free to leave at any moment. This has to end  _ sometime, _ Jaqen.”

“It is senseless to leave the Targaryen here for certain death.”  _  To leave him here was a death sentence. _ To leave him here, and allow them to rip him apart, to sever his white skin, shut the life out of his eyes...the thought slightly sickened Jaqen. 

“Oh, are you concerned for him?” Varys dripped with sarcasm.  “I’m surprised, I thought that the arrival of your beautiful wife would change the equation a bit?  Tell me that you haven’t fallen for that Targaryen charm. Arya must be  _ most _ upset.”

_ The image of Arya kissing Aegon flashed in a man’s head, her dark hair up against him, their skin, both of them, pale, almost luminescent...her lust completely concentrated on Aegon, and then turning to pull Jaqen in close to them, her eyes dark with desire...   _

Jaqen bristled; lethal, quiet. “It is not your concern, how a man feels. But...you will ensure the Targaryen’s safety. Find a place for him to go. This mission was not taken so that at the end of it another government could take out an innocent.”

Varys’ voice grew colder, shrewd. “So, you’d like me to ensure his safety as a favor? That’s a rather tall order. I might ask you for a favor in return.”

Jaqen closed his eyes; he could see Varys in his mind’s eye, see his hands moving, the chameleon face inscrutable, his eyes narrowed.

“What..what is it.” He hissed. 

“You see, my dear Jaqen, we  _ have _ tried to continue our work. But it gets more and more difficult. It is  _ so  _ hard to find good help. A shame, really. Our ranks are dwindling, yet the world still needs us.  You left; we’ve had other associates leave; Kate and Gaani have been less than helpful. Their child has completely stopped their work.  Yet, we must persevere.  I will help your Targaryen...but in exchange I will require some more of your time.”

“Another mission.” Jaqen glanced through the glass door at Arya, sleeping, finally; her face was slack, her mouth slightly open, a pillow under her had found it’s way into her arms.

What would a lovely girl think.

Varys cleared his throat. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t enjoy this, Jaqen. All the years you spent in service to a purpose higher than  _ just you _ . When we found you in Istanbul you were the perfect servant. You saved so many innocent lives, took so many evil ones. And then...Arya Stark enters, and suddenly you’re bound, compliant...it’s such a waste of your...talents.  Oh, I will keep the Targaryen safe, as safe as I can.”

 

Varys paused for effect. “ And, in exchange, you will come back into service for me, the next time I need you.”

_ What would a lovely girl think... _ he paused.

Varys sensed the hesitation, threw his cards on the table. “You don’t get a choice, Jaqen, and you don’t get to consider this offer. Consider this an order.  I will keep the Targaryen safe.  Get him out of Cyprus. There are assassins leaving Russia as we speak to come and take him out.  That woman, that red-headed woman that you met is coming for him. It’s quite simple, really: you offer your service on another mission and I will muster all the strength that I have to ensure his safety.”

Jaqen considered. “When. Where?”

Varys laughed again. “The next mission? Who knows when something else will happen? I don’t have a date. I don’t know  _ who _ will need our help. I just know that sooner or later,  _ someone will. _ ..and I’d prefer to know that I’m sending my best out to do that help.”

“I will owe, you then, a death for his life.”  _ Aegon’s face, his eyes, violet; his movements, fluid, quick... _  a man could sacrifice a bit of time, to keep him safe.  Arya in tears, understanding her part in Aegon’s fate:  _ a girl would understand. _

“Yes. A death, for his life. You’ll need to tell him, of course - I can produce as many apartments and offices and stories about who you are - or aren’t - as we might need.  That said, this will need to end, and soon. You’ll tell him the truth, and I’ll make sure he’s protected for one year. A lot can happen in a year. They could completely overhaul the Kremlin. I do know men who are working on just that. Ahh, the general.  If only every client was as straightforward as he.”

Jaqen nodded. It was a small price to pay.

“Very well, then. A man will join you for another mission. The last mission. And you will make sure that the Targaryen is safe.”

Varys’ voice had lowered as well.

“Oh, I just love to work with you, Jaqen. Truly a giant in your field. Get the Targaryen out of there. Make sure that he knows that there is no pipeline, but that being away from the Kremlin is truly his best option.  _ The only option, _ according to our...client.  I will keep him safe.  And then, when I need you, you’ll come back to me, just for one mission. It’s a simple transaction, really.”

Jaqen nodded. He had no other choice.  _ Arya’s great grey eyes, stormclouds crying, Aegon’s fingers against her skin, docile and then demanding, worshiping her. _ ..He clicked off his phone.

 

A man learns his lessons. He would wake her, tell her.  She would stir, her eyes would open slowly, blearily….but he would tell her, tell her all of it.  _ No more secrets. _  And the tears she had shed for Aegon would be for naught; she would be able to help save the Targaryen. He would insist that she joined him, he would keep her at his side every step of the way. And together, they would work through what they needed to do, ensure that he was safe, before they were able to return home. 

_ Just so.  _

  
  


\--

 

_ Green leaves and the crash of waves...she needed to help Ned, help him, she was falling...she was falling...no... _ she was waking, waking up to Jaqen’s hand on her shoulder, a gentle waking...as her eyes opened and focused she saw him, his face over hers, concerned.

_ Fuck. How long had she been sleeping. _

“Arya. Arya. You must wake, beloved. Eat, eat.”   _ Oh Jaqen, a cup of his coffee in front of her, some fruit..she was ravenous. _

She took the cup and sipped it; the warmth of it spreading through her, her nerves gently starting to wake as it coursed through her system. She set the cup down.

“Jaqen. What time is it. What about…”   _ Aegon. What about Aegon. Was he still coming? _

 

“Arya. We have some time, although not very much. I must tell you. I spoke to Varys. He will keep Aegon safe, but we must get him out of Cyprus. There is danger here, danger coming.”  Jaqen looked worried, but he still moved with the elegance of an animal, every muscle expending just the right amount of energy, no more, no less, to do his bidding. 

“Varys?” She hissed a little. “I don’t know what to think of him right now.”  She took another sip of her coffee, pulled the blanket up over her.

“Arya. Varys will keep him safe. But a man has had to... _ commit. _ ..to Varys. One more mission.  That is the balance. Aegon’s life, for another.”

“Another mission?”  She looked at him, narrowed eyes. “Now what does he want you to do?”

Jaqen moved closer to her, moved his mouth to kiss her knee, sticking out of the blanket.  “He has not said. It was Aegon’s life, really, or his death. A man would not go through all of this - ” he gestured “- only to return to America knowing that an innocent was killed because of the work that we have done.”

Arya picked up the coffee again; it was strong, slightly sweet... _ oh, it had been so long since he had made her coffee; it was  _ home _ and  _ him _ and their life together… _

“So Varys would let him be killed.”  Her voice was flat, and she sipped again, watching him.

“Yes, lovely girl, and...that is perhaps more than a man could take.  The Targaryen would not be marked for death had he not met a man, had he not been willing to purchase the pipeline.”

“So, what happens next, then.” She leaned her knee into his touch, her lover, her husband...in front of her, his hand on her leg,  _ comfort...home… _

“We must go to Ashgabat.” In her sleepiness she was confused; he must have seen her face. Patiently, he explained again. “My sweet girl, where Aegon expects to find his freedom from the Kremlin.  We will join him on his plane. We will get him away from here. We must tell him that there is no pipeline, and Varys will do the rest. It is not safe for him in Cyprus. His murderers are gathering.”

He dropped his eyes, and looked up at her through his eyelashes, that look that made her mad, that look of courtesy.  “That is, if my bride would like to join me.”

Arya sat back. Still waking up, and Jaqen right there in front of me, and more and more ahead of us.

She thought of Aegon. Of Jaqen. Of her questions before she had made it to Cyprus, of the insecurity she had felt.

“Jaqen.”  she toyed with the edge of the blanket. “Jaqen. Do you still love...just me?  Can you still just be happy, with me?”

Before he could speak she saw alarm in his eyes and continued.  _ Fucking Jaqen and his beautiful eyes, so big, focusing on her and reducing her to a beating heart, to a boneless state. _ “Jaqen, there’s a reason that you left to take this job. Do you think that you can be happy, with me, in America?  Are you missing something?”

He sat back and looked up at the ceiling, thinking, before he answered.  “Arya Stark. That is the question you ask.  Of course a man is happy with his bride. You are my soul, you are my everything. But..a girl is wise... a man needs a purpose beyond  _ your _ flesh and blood. If it is building one thousand houses, if it is traveling the world together, if it is working for Varys with you by my side...a man has watched his girl, concentrating, frantic, on her writing.  And found that sometimes he feels that he is no one, no one beside her.”

Her eyes widened. His honesty...unexpected.

“A man wants you by his side, always. A man will never leave you, never  _ love _ another besides you.  But yes, darling girl, a man must have a reason of his own, something beyond the flesh and blood of his beloved. And he hopes that his bride would join him, support him; she has given him the vision of everything, and without her there is nothing.”

She closed her eyes.

“So, what does that mean?”  The thought of their house in New York, empty without him; walking the streets in New York City, hollow victories if she was not able to share them with him…

He leaned over and carefully took the coffee cup out of her hand before pulling her whole body against his. She loved this feeling, he overtook her, overwhelmed her with his size, his smell, his touch.

He kissed her head. “Oh, impatient girl. This means that we must handle the last part of the mission. And this means that we go to some unknown shore, afterwards, and take some time to understand how our life flowers.  But it also means that I know there is no meaning without you. So...this means that we continue with the understanding that you are my beloved, and I belong to you just as your blood and hopes and fears do.  _ Yours, Arya Stark. _ ”

She kissed his neck.

“Jaqen...this thing...Aegon...what does it mean? Are we completely depraved?” She laughed but he must have heard the embarrassment in her voice; even though he could not see her face she burrowed it against him.

“Depraved?” HIs laugh rumbled through him and she felt it as much as she heard it. “My insatiable girl, I would say...indeed...but I think this is not your normal behavior. Nor does a man wish to continue this experimentation.  A man feels that Aegon is something else entirely. There is no one similar.”

He pulled away from her. “Does a girl wish for Aegon again, does she want him?”

She squirmed.

“Ah, a girl can say nothing on this, yes? Aegon is...compelling. He is a thing in itself. I feel like he is the definition of ‘depravity’. And yet you crave him. And yes, Arya...it is hard not to. A man does as well.”

 

He gave her cover again and she took it, hiding her face again. “Do not worry, beloved. Aegon is like...a comet. He is almost celestial, no? Beautiful and rare like a comet, burning himself out as he gets closer to the sun. He will be fine when he is no longer so close to the Kremlin. He is in our vision now, beautiful; and he will _ flare  _ and we marvel at him, and then he will vanish.”

He kissed the top of her head, as if the matter was settled.

Arya’s eyes were wide open, even though he could not see her, wide open and her thoughts wrapped around his words, expanding upon them.

 

_ A comet always returns. _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much talking. blah blah blah. sorry, but had to clear a few things up in this chap. you still with me? I'm on a bit of a tear right now, please let me know if I'm sacrificing clarity for speed. 
> 
> also, starting to think of my next long piece. any ideas?


	34. oxytocin

Sansa’s fog was choking her.  It felt like a blanket, over her head, smothering her.  And it looked like the red flash of her phone, daring her to answer, to call back, to return the text.

Instead she picked at a dinner made with Willas, his visage shy, mute. 

And she ignored Petyr’s texts, the buzzing of her phone - she turned it off, midway through the night.

_ Whatever you do, whatever you say, Petyr - you’ll charm me senseless.  I’ll just assume that it’s charming, and inflammatory, and we’ll keep it at that tonight.  _

And she wanted to keep her senses, as painful as they were, in place. 

Willas made appreciative noises over dinner, and she firmly placed the mask on that would allow her to keep conversation going: the right noises, small laughs, heartfelt advice.  She heard nothing.  Time dragged, epochs, centuries, eons….

Mercifully after dinner Willas went to his study to prepare for the next day.  Sitting alone in the house, thinking about Petyr...she could not muster either the desire to break through the stifling monotony of Willas, nor could she summon the want that had consumed her for Petyr. 

 

She was trapped. 

 

She was sickened on all sides. 

At least Willas would leave the house tomorrow. He had listened to her advice, listened as she told him that everything would be okay; perked up after dinner when he planned his tomorrow.

She would be alone. 

 

She would be free. 

She wondered what would happen with Olenna.  _ Would they find anything in her body, in what was left of the vessel she had inhabited?  Or would the poison be leached out, like her blood, like her fluids? _

Sansa tried to push away the image of Olenna’s corpse, but it lingered, malevolent, corded sinew and dried flesh and an open mouth; it flashed in her eyes when she closed them. 

She wondered what would happen to Petyr, if she called the police. 

And what would happen to her if she did, if he would take her down, if he would implicate her somehow. 

Her heart thudded, thinking about him, and then the sickness came over her again.   _ This was untenable.  _

That night before bed she retched again, neatly hitting the center of the toilet, washing her face off primly and brushing each and every pearly tooth before she lay down to bed, beside Willas, his arm an unwelcome burden over her, too timid, thankfully, to demand more of her.

She woke the next morning to Willas stirring; he was moving with a deadman’s cheerfulness, a resigned set of motions, a child that does not want to go to school but dares not disobey his parents. 

She tried to help him, to contribute and smiled gently at him as he dressed; she moved to the kitchen to prepare his tea.

_ Anything to get him out of the house.  _

Walking past her phone she realized that it had died, likely from the weight of too many messages beeping in its electronic core, using up all of its energy.  It was dark and quiet and she plugged it in, resolving to look at everything later, once she had dragged herself back to some everyday routine, back to a level of everyday emotion.

Because now, she was scraping the shallows. 

Willas walked out the door with a hesitance in his steps but he was gone -  _ finally thank fucking god  _ \- and Sansa leaned her back against the door once he had left. 

She pulled herself up to the shower, scrubbing herself raw.   _ Murderer. Murderer.  _

 

_ He wouldn’t have done this without you. He wouldn’t have done this if it hadn’t been for you.  _

 

_ He murdered Olenna for you.  _

She groaned.  Just so long as she didn’t speak to him, just so long as she didn’t see him...she could...persevere. Still agonizing, but at least the crippling guilt would abate, would allow her to breathe in completely. She hoped. 

Flashes of his face in her memory, the wry smile, the sharp eyes, the width of his thumb, the purr in her ear. 

And she’d wanted all of it. 

The water grew cold and she realized that she was curled up at the bottom of the shower, that the steam that marked the first twenty minutes in the shower had dissipated and now the water droplets came down unmercifully on her skin, cold. 

She shook herself and got up, trying to muster some purpose, turning off the water and walking out into the bedroom to dress.  The day stretched out in front of her, long, and she rotely pulled on a skirt, a shirt; pulled the wet whip of her hair into a ponytail, and moved to the couch to sit again.

This is ridiculous. 

She got up, angry at herself, starting to feel the sparks in herself again and moved to find her phone partially charged.  Four messages. 

 

_ Sweetling, have a good night tonight.  _

 

_ I haven’t heard from you. Thinking of you. _

 

_ Sansa, are you there? Need to talk to you. _

 

_ Keep your eyes open, I’ll handle the rest of this soon.  _

 

Petyr.  Fuck. Fuck. 

What was he talking about. Of course she knew he had texted, but seeing the words, stinging like needles, shaming her for still wanting him, laying out so clearly why she shouldn’t have him.

Petyr was bad, bad news. 

She pulled herself back together.  This needed to stop. This had gone too far.   She went back upstairs to really get ready, to leave the house, to go find him.

_ She had to end it.  _

 

\--

  
  


It was heaven, heaven being able to lay with Jaqen. 

She’d pulled him down on the couch with her, too tired to really move, but the sweetness of his weight upon her, the smell of him lingering near her, his hands and his mouth kissing her...they held each other, balanced on the small heft of the couch.

“A girl must sleep.” His face quirked with that look, and she took a fingertip to the side of his mouth, tracing underneath the fullness of his lip and back up to the sharp of his cheekbone.

She smirked, mocking. . “A girl has slept too long without her husband.” 

He reached and kissed her and for one moment there was nothing else in the world, no insistence, nothing around them, just the warmth of his mouth, comfort mixed with something indescribable.  

_ Love, her lover. _

There was something beyond words in the way he gazed on her; triumph and possessiveness and tenderness, his mouth reaching for hers lazily and then supping on it.  She felt his presence and the oxytocin wash of calm, of home, spread through each capillary, touched each cell, reverberated back out into the universe.

_ Lover. _

The sun was rising steadily with all the persistent optimism of midmorning, and finally he stirred from the cocoon of warmth they had created. 

“A girl must eat. And clean herself. Prepare. Are there other clothes in that bag - do you have your passports with you, or have you only prepared for Thalia?”  His eyes crinkled at the name. 

She rolled upright, slowly, and stretched her arms, feeling the tendons lengthen in her back and go back to normal. 

“Oh, dear  _ Anton _ . You’re traveling with  _ Thalia _ from here on out. What a naughty barrister she is, eh?” She effected the British accent that she’d worn like a cloak with Aegon. 

He was starting to stand but dipped his head down, grinning.  “Thalia...she reminds me almost too much of a girl I know. Very close. The similarities are almost too much, no?”

She laughed; Anton’s voice had come out, Anton’s eyes were livelier than Jaqen’s, his movements more quick.

Anton tickled her.  And Thalia let him.

Arya hated to be tickled, and Jaqen rarely chanced it. 

 

They laughed and he turned back to walk into the kitchen.  “More coffee, Anton...you make coffee like a man I used to know.  A man, yes...quite a man...he told me all the time that he was...a man.”  She swatted his ass as she walked by, marveling at the shape of it, jutting out against the musculature of his back.   _ Fucking man all right.  _

She pulled some clothes from her suitcase and moved towards the back of the flat where she assumed she’d find a shower; quickly she washed, noting the scent of bergamot, of bay leaf in the soap, grabbing Jaqen’s razor and hastily running it over her legs.  Thalia indeed had packed, and Arya found herself dressed in a grey dress, comfortable but possibly a bit shorter than Arya Stark would wear.  

She wrapped her wet hair into a bun and dotted her lips, berry-red.  In the mirror she looked tired, but kempt, more stylish than Arya Stark normally cared to be. 

The shower invigorated her, and the second cup of coffee - fucking Jaqen’s coffee, how she fucking missed it - finally seeped into her bloodstream.  She was able to think straight.

 

And remember what had happened the night before. 

 

“Did we...did we really do that, with Aegon?”  She stirred into her coffee, as if it would reassure her:  _ no, nothing happened.  _

Jaqen laughed but his eyes held something darker behind them.  “Yes, lovely girl. We did. A sight I never thought I’d see, before.”  His mouth moved and turned; she recognized the slight jut of his jaw: he fucking wanted this. 

“And you liked it.” She tried to make her voice flat. 

“Mmmm.  Very much.”  She heard his voice hitch.

She took a sip of the coffee. “And just what should we do with him in Ashgabat?  Varys has an apartment for you?”

Jaqen’s eyes were looking slightly glazed and as she spoke they unfocused. “Um. Yes. We will take Aegon to the apartment.  And there we will tell him, tell him that it is all a lie.”

His eyes had now sharpened into pinpricks.  She could see behind them...guilt. 

“Jaqen, did you know that this would happen?”  The coffee cup was armor, armor; protecting her from his gaze, so it felt.  She took another sip, vacillating between the unapologetic boldness of her actions before and acting as Jaqen’s chaste wife.  Either way, she felt herself flutter.  _ Both of them.  Oh my fucking god.    _

“Lovely girl, none of it. But now we must move, we must work. We have a duty. And we will have to tell him, and try to tame him into leaving.”

_ Tame him.  _

Arya’s mind whirled. 

“Jaqen, I might know the way to do that. Follow my lead, once we get there?”  She smirked. The boldness had won out.  Besides, it may be the only way.

He leaned down to kiss her, his tongue inching into her mouth and then retreating.  “A man should shower as well. Be ready.”

He dropped on his knees in front of her.  “Be prepared. And be careful. And know that you are loved endlessly.”

She felt her face, so soft, every angle rounded, as she looked at him. Her lover.  Her eyes followed him down the hall and when she could not see him again she sipped her coffee, savoring it.  

When she was finished she stood again, pulling a cigarette from her pack and noticing her phone, Arya’s phone, lit up in her bag.  She pulled it out and moved to the outer terrace, outside the glass door. 

A text. 

 

_ Lyanna Mormont.  _

 

_ Arya, I don’t know when you plan on coming back but don’t. Borders closed. Very dangerous. Police everywhere in Maine, dozens murdered.  Stay out, you are a target b/c of the book - me too.  Xo _

 

ARya’s hands trembled and she read and reread the message, over and over.  Lyanna, Lyanna wasn’t scared, Lyanna didn’t fuck with anything, Lyanna would tell the world to suck it.  Not to avoid the problem. 

 

_ dozens murdered  _

 

She stared over and over at the screen, cigarette after cigarette, even once the shadow of Jaqen’s form appeared in her peripheral vision. 

Another noise, the door, snapped her out of her reverie. 

_ dozens murdered _

Aegon, tall and cool and silver, walking into the apartment; Arya watched from outside of herself as he greeted Jaqen, a kiss on each cheek and then a true kiss; she watched her husband, aloft from her body, as he pressed against the other, watched the long pale arm wrap around Jaqen’s golden form. 

When they broke, she pulled the great glass door open and watched as his face turned to her; watched as his attention changed from Jaqen to her, as he looked her up and down and the smile on his face softened, his eyes warm. 

“Thalia! You’re still here. I was hoping….”

And before he could finish the sentence he had strode across the room to her; his hands had encircled her, ozone and sea salt and citrus and the softest lips, the most brilliant amethyst eyes, focused with pinpoint sight on  _ her, her... _

Just before she closed her eyes, allowed him to consume her, she caught a flash of Jaqen.  His mouth was turned up just so; she saw his fingers clutch against the back of a dining chair. She knew that look, that feral look; she  _ knew _ how he looked at his prey. 

She shivered and let herself feel it, let the fantasy move through her. 

_ They ‘d save Aegon, from god knows what; save him for themselves if nothing else.  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	35. Chapter 35

Jon hadn’t made it quite up to the dark, recessed door of Ygritte’s bar, but he could hear trouble inside.  Low, loud shouts and Ygritte’s voice, pitched and reedy above it.  

He fell into a lope, a steady run until he made it inside and skidded to a neat halt at the sight of a gun drawn, facing him. 

Homeland Security in there, again, one of them startled by Jon’s entrance, eyes wild. 

Jon looked quickly across the room he saw one of them bleeding, a cut on the cheek; the other two men were bristling, one gun drawn, walking slowly through the room towards her, the other trained on himself. 

“No, no need for that around here.” Jon spoke softly, his hands up, looking for a sign, something that would show him what had happened.

He saw it in the shards of glass on the ground near the bleeding man’s face.

The regulars were edged up against the bar, eyes round, watching what had just went down. Jon saw a few of them slowly backing away.

“No, not at all..no, no…need for that here. What happened?” Jon had started to move, slowly, slowly, arms still up.

“This little cunt threw a glass at me, that’s what.  What do you care, you fucking scrub?”  The man’s voice was treacherously low.

“Semper fi - I’ve served. No worries, no worries…” Jon realized that he was moving too fast and stopped again, turned to look at Ygritte, shaking.

Tall John, one of the morose regulars, cleared his throat.  “Ay, no need for any of that around here.”  There were quiet murmurs of assent. 

“Is this your fucking cunt?? Is it?”  Jon realized that the other soldier with a gun had gotten closer to Ygritte, cold muzzle pointed towards her from only a few feet away.

She was wild-eyed, heaving, but quiet at least…

“Yeah. I don’t know what happened, but I do know it’s been a hell of a week. Gotta go down to Green Bay tomorrow, gotta bury her sister.” The lie came out too fast, and Jon didn’t know what he was saying...just that Green Bay was the wrong direction. 

The wrong direction from wherever he’d take Ygritte away to, if they could get out of this…he didn’t know what she’d said, at the bar, didn’t know how she had acted. It was a risk. The only risk he felt like he could take, looking at Ygritte, her eyes ringed with white like an animal caged in a trap…

_ Be quiet be quiet be quiet _ he willed her...by the gods she was quiet,  _ oh stay that way darling. _

“Fucking hysterical cunt threw a fucking glass at my head.”  The injured man had staunched the bleeding, kicking at the glass by his feet and it tinkled as it moved across the floor.  

Jon stood straighter.   _ Fucking Homeland Security. Who were they really working for. _  No matter what Ygritte had done, this was beyond the pale.  Jon’s former Marine came out strong and he looked for an angle, for their leader. The one pointing a gun at him appeared to be in command.

“Sir.”  Jon kept his eye and addressed him.

The man pulled his gun down but he did not wave off the man pointing a gun at Ygritte.

“Your rank, kid.” 

“Gunny Sgt. 2nd Batallion. Fox Company.” Jon felt the words singsong out of his mouth.

“Gunny, eh? Look at you.” The man dripped with derision and Jon wondered if he outranked him, Jon wondered if they had hired him from a mall security office.. _.this is not the force, this is not my government…. _ Jon looked for any identifying badge and saw one, Slynt, Slynt, Slynt...

 

“Permission to speak, sir.”  Jon continued. 

The man nodded, but the look of distrust did not wane, not yet. 

“We don’t want any trouble, here. She’s...she’s hysterical -” Jon knew he’d pay for that later, if he could get her out of here - “we’ve got to go down to Green Bay for a funeral, family she hasn’t seen, all that. Let me get her out of here, get you some drinks, no trouble, no trouble here. Sir.”

“Let ‘er go.” One of the regulars had stood a little straighter; Jon recognized him, farm outside of Marquette, scrubby apples and hay fields, two dusty sons that looked just like him...oh the stock of men that had never had to bend, and now…

“Sir. With permission, sir. She’ll be out of your hair sir.”  Jon continued, honeying his words as much as he thought would work, stealing the quickest glance at Ygritte who was visibly starting to crumble, behind the bar, the stress of it all…

“Is that your fucking cunt?? Answer me!!” The injured man yelled again before the ranking officer could say anything. 

“Ay, sir.”  Jon nodded.

And then ducked as a bottle flew towards his head.

“Get that fucking cunt out of here, now. Get her fucking out, out! Fucking spray her with bullets next time I see her. Go!”  

That was all Jon needed to hear and he gestured to Ygritte who moved like a pale shadow over towards him and he pushed her towards the door, getting out of the bar as quickly as he could and then taking her hand and running with her, pulling her from heading towards their apartment over, in case anyone was watching.  

They moved quickly, without speaking for about six blocks and then Jon stopped and pulled Ygritte behind a tree, around the side of a house under darkened windows.

“What was that all about?  Ygritte?”  he held her by the shoulders, torn between wanting to shake her and crush her against him; the latter won out when he saw her eyes, scared and angry, and he pressed her head against his neck and willed her breathing to slow, slow, slow.

“That fucking piece of shit killed my da.”  Ygritte moaned. “They fucking bragged about it, they got half a dozen men up in the mountains, had a few beers, started talking about their fucking week, heard them talk about a compound, man with a red beard, fucking my da, couldn’t find him later, ‘must’ve gotten dragged off and eaten like the fucking animal he is’ - my da killed by such a little fucking….”  

She was shuddering and Jon pulled her closer, closer.

“So I fucking threw a whiskey bottle at his fucking head, wish I woulda just busted his eyes out….”

“Shhhh...shhhh...shhhh…”Jon pulled her as tightly as he could, tried to wrap around the hurt, to stop anything else from penetrating her; usually so tough…

“Jon, they’re killing people. And laughing about it.”  She sucked in her sob, a noisy wet sound, kept her face up against his neck; he felt the warm wetness of her tears on his skin. 

“Ygritte. We have to get out of here.”

  
  
  


\--

  
  


Melisandre had posted a man up outside of the Targaryen’s villa, and another one near his office.  

Nothing.

It was nice, it was nice to see that the President supported her. She had two men with her, at her beck and call; enough money to get where she needed to go.

And a Russian state plane to take her, as well.

She paced, back at the hotel close to his office. She had tried to pull up information on Anton Zurali; nothing. 

She refreshed her email again. 

Nothing. 

All of the excitement, preparing to take the Targaryen...and instead she had to be patient. 

Just so. She could be patient. She understood. 

A fireplace lay unused in the corner of her room. After the letdown of earlier, she did not want to light a fire...not yet. She needed something else, a sign, some information before she tried to divine anything. 

Funny how faith worked. Sometimes, when you are bereft of your faith, the smallest kernel of knowledge can turn everything; when you are starving, the smallest morsel seems to be of such significance. 

She waited.

 

\--

An hour later her phone started to ring and she picked it up.  Moscow. One of the associates, handling research. 

“Melisandre.  _ Dobryj dyen’.  _ I have some information for you.  Is this an appropriate...time?”

_ Finally.  _

She gripped the phone. “Yes.”

“There is no Anton Zurali.”

She frowned, felt her forehead crease. “Ridiculous. We have seen him.”

“Yes, yes, but that man is not anyone by the name of Anton Zurali. There is no Anton Zurali. It’s a farce, made up.”

Her mouth opened, and closed.  _ Taken by a cheat, the Targaryen was stolen from her, by no one! _

“Who _ is  _ it.” Her voice simmered.

“We’ve run facial recognition software. He was last seen in Paris, half a decade ago, suspicious circumstances around the arms deal. We don’t know his name, though.”

_ Oh, the incompetence. _

“Well whoever he is, he was just with the Targaryen in Moscow. And surely he’s here in Cyprus as well.  Along with that woman. No one, eh? He’s got to be someone. Find him.”

 

-

 

Aegon dipped in front of Arya, kneeling for a moment; he slid his hand up the outside of her legs, the long fingers able to complete encircle her ankle, sliding up to her knee and then to the outside of her thighs under the dress, holding them there and pulling her over to him, burying his head in her belly.

She could see his body quiver, although with what she did not know; excitement? Was he scared, was he hiding? 

She held his head.

_ Oh Aegon...what have we done to you. _

She looked at Jaqen: _now what…_

Jaqen cleared his throat and Aegon moved his face so that he could see him.

In Jaqen’s soft voice, with Anton’s accent he spoke.

“Aegon. We should go. Are you safe? Are you ready?”

“Aegon nodded and started to stand, placing a kiss on Arya’s dress, pushing the soft fabric up against her skin; she could feel the moist heat from his breath through the fabric and she bent to meet his face.

“I’m coming with you,” she whispered.

At her words his hands stilled and he pulled her again towards him, clutching her.

“Ah, having you near...it will bring me luck. It was meant to happen. All of this.” He kissed her and then stood up.  “Yes, we really should. I don’t know who’s looking for me. Someone is.  To Ashgabat, then, and we seal our fortunes.”

Arya was glad that his face was away from hers, glad that he could not see the guilt ghost over her face, hit her. _To Ashgabat, to nothing...to the lie..._

“Aegon. We can go anywhere. You know that they’ll be looking for you there. It would be smarter to disappear for a bit, don’t you think?” 

His energy materialized again and he picked her up, a feather in his arms; she wrapped herself around his neck. Jaqen was visibly _ interested  _ in their motions, his face expectant, his mouth slightly open.

She tried again, another take. “Anton...don’t you think we should take Aegon to the farthest corner of the universe, keep him safe?”

Jaqen’s eyes focused again and he raised his eyebrow. “Mmm. Yes. Thailand, take you to Thailand, keep you in a little hut on the beach, never to be found.”

Aegon laughed. 

“Precious creatures. Both of you. No, no. First Ashgabat. And then.. anywhere you’d like.  Besides. If Russia wants to find me badly enough, she will. Believe me.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the sporadic updates! busy at work, busy at home, busy with a smattering of creative projects...need a clone. <3 thanks for sticking with.


	36. petulant

_ Murderer. Murderer.  _

She let the word wash over her in a drumbeat, each syllable in cadence with her footfalls, the high heels striking concrete sidewalks, a brisk breeze starting to blow: autumn, unannounced, had started to sneak into Chicago.

_ Murderer.  _

Each footstep seemed to set her mouth tighter, her whole face sealed, sealed against any intrusion, any soft words. By the time she made it to the L her face was stone, carved of stone, with only a slight wetness of her eyes to mark her human. 

_ Murderer.  _

_ Inhuman.  _

Had she played a part in Olenna’s death? Would Petyr have gone after her anyhow?

Soundlessly she exited the train and then her heels struck pavement again. But the word had floated away, and now her steps were only strangely staccato against the pavement, no rhythm, nothing to attach them to...she marched on anyhow, cold sweat slicking her palms as she got closer to his flat, cold frightened anger like a steel ball in her belly, weighing her down.

She knocked at his door once; hard - her hand stung from the blow.

It opened. 

His face was amused at first and she shut herself against the green eyes, shut herself against the line of his cheeks, the cut of his dimples, the sound of his voice greeting her.  She steeled herself, no movement, no give when he reached his arms around her.

And then she wondered if she had taken it too far when the timbre of his voice lowered and softened dangerously.

“Sansa. You seem...upset.”  He tried to lead her into the house but she stood, rigid.  _ A wall, a wall, I am nothing, I am nothing, nevermore here… _

“I can’t see you anymore.” Her voice rang out distant, nasally, and she wondered if her lips had moved, if the stone of her face had vanished long enough to allow her to speak. 

A different kind of mask. 

“Sansa.  Sweetling. I know it’s hard to be patient but…”

“You murdered her.” Frozen sound skimming over a field of ice, her own voice.

And then she stiffened again, watching his reaction.

He cocked his head and scrutinized her, looked her up and down; she knew he was looking for a way inside the mask, inside her head. 

He reached his hands out for her and pulled her in, her feet reluctantly moving so that he didn’t drag her.  

His hands felt like iron shackles on her wrist and she stared straight ahead.   _ Don’t want to see you, don’t want to crack… _

He stood in front of her, breathing quietly.

“And I’d do it again.” His face changed; something flitted over his eyes and then they turned bright, calculating; he looked at her face and ran a finger over her cheeks -stone i am stone i am stone - and rested it right at the divet of her collarbone.

“I’d do it all for you, sweetling, just about anything.  I told you. You’re mine.”  He whispered the words to her, soft haze of his voice infiltrating her…

“You can’t. I’m not. No.” She felt her voice rising and stilled it. “No. Not like this.”

_ Willas’ brown eyes, smudged with tears but so trusting… _

“Sansa.” His thumb, thick and long, padded at her neck and brushed upwards, under her chin and his eyes narrowed. “Sansa. I love you.”

Love. Those words.  “You don’t know the meaning of those words. You can’t love me….love isn’t…”  _ I’m breaking I’m breaking breaking… _

His breath curled closer, mint; she could see the gleam of silver hairs at his temple, scattered on the back of his neck, his eyes that flinty green grey, his face all flesh and angles, dimples…

She closed her eyes. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t see it...can’t stand against it.

Mistake. Because then all she could feel was his thumb, hitched up under her chin and gently, gently stroking down her neck; she felt his breath get warmer, closer and he whispered again.

“Sansa. You have to trust me. You’re the only person in the world who has to trust me...but you have to. I’d do anything for you.  And I just need you to be patient, just a bit longer.  She was dead, anyhow; she was a dead woman walking.  She’d had her time.”  Now his lips brushed her neck, a feathertouch.

She opened her eyes again but his face was too close and she could not focus on him, could not see him…

“No.” Her voice lost the hardened edge of it, ice shaped into snowflakes.

A fingertip tracing down her chest and she stood against it, her nipple pebbling despite herself, his voice that much closer, he was so close to her mouth, his other hand trailing down the curve of her back, achingly slow.

“Sansa. You’ll see. This is how it’s supposed to be. You just need to wait. Go home and try to be with him. You can’t. You can’t because you’re mine.”

The lips kissed her and the fingers moved over her and then he pulled back from her, a serious look in his eyes, even though his mouth had curved into a crooked smile. 

“Go home, Sansa. I’ll wait for you as long as I need to.”

_ Broken I broke I break... _

She kept herself together until she made it outside of his apartment, down the street; a bench on the side of a small church caught her eye and she sat down on it, frozen, frozen. 

  
  
  
  


\--

 

Time to leave, time to leave. Aegon had picked up a girl’s suitcase, and he had his own, and he locked the apartment and walked down the stairs and to the silver one’s towncar, purring below, waiting to take them back to the airstrip.

A man had trust in Varys; if they had to get to Ashgabat, so they would, although a man had never been there before.  At least to get Aegon out of Cyprus, get them away from whatever terrors the Russian president would try to unleash on them.

The island would be Aegon’s tomb, and for that reason a man had to leave. 

A car and then another car pulled out behind them; a man could not help but see.  A flash of red in the window; the passenger was familiar...Anton felt for his gun, strapped up against him.  He looked over at Aegon.  Showed it to him. 

“Should we run into any trouble…in Ashgabat I tend to keep this with me.”

He figured that at some point Aegon would find it.  _ Best that he know about it, now, before his fingers brush up against it, before he opens his wide eyes at the feeling of it.  _

Aegon nodded in approval, and for a moment Jaqen wondered if he was armed as well...

A girl was quiet in the car and she had nestled this time up against their target, her small form enveloped by Aegon, his beautiful face staring out the window.

They were silent until they got into the plane.  Jaqen held a hand up. “Let me call my driver, make sure that we are met.  It will take us about eight hours, no?”

Aegon nodded, sinking into a chair on the plane, snug in the grey leather.  He looked tired; Jaqen saw the darkness underneath his eyes, his face even paler than usual. 

Jaqen dialed.   _ “ _ _ Avtomobilin gözlədiyinə əmin olun. On saata yaxın gələcək …” _

Varys’ voice, smooth, answered.  “Of course. The car will be waiting for you. You’ll know your driver. Everything is handled.”

Jaqen resisted the urge to smile. The spider, impossible to throw off, any language he wanted… _ ” _ _ cox yaxsi.”   _

“Indeed.  So nice to hear you speak the mother tongue, Anton.”

The phone clicked off. 

 

\--

 

The stress of the day had been too much for Aegon, and he fell asleep after moving himself restlessly.   A man looked at his bride; she had worry in her eyes, a grey storm brewing; her lip was pulled between her teeth.

_ That would not do.  _

“Thalia.” He whispered. A surge of pride as she looked up immediately; all the games, all the tests of years before and she had remembered them all; her face had even pulled with Thalia’s insouciance. 

“Thalia, come to me.”  He moved himself over to the sofa; the plane was flying smoothly.  

She obeyed, padding over to him, curling up against him.

He did not kiss his bride. He did not need to. He held her and felt her heart thud up against him, he held her and thought of each tiny little cell, moving inside her body; everything that she ever was and ever will be pressed up against him, all the promise of her mind and spirit wrapped into the vessel of her body. 

He held her more tightly.

“Sleep.” He whispered.

_ Sleep my beloved.  _

  
\--

There was a supreme comfort in feeling her up against him, and although a man did not want to lose himself in a cloud of sleep, he could not help it.  Sudden, sharp movements of the plane around him woke him, and he felt his girl wake as well.

A quick look and he realized that Aegon had woken as well.  

Aegon’s eyes opened and he stared at the two of them, laid out on the sofa; the most natural feeling in the world for Jaqen...but for the first time he saw something else in Aegon’s eyes.

_ Jealousy.  _

Jealous of himself, likely; he noticed that the lavender eyes fixed on Arya as she squirmed up against him to reclaim the warmth she had created.  And so he reached an arm out. 

“Come. You were sleeping.”

The jealousy did not abate from Aegon’s face and the stung lips looked almost petulant. “She’s so comfortable, though. I would hate to disturb her.”

His voice dripped with something else and a girl shifted, aware. 

“Come here.” Her voice was clear against the drone of the plane. “Come to us.”

The jealousy gathered and then broke, although tendrils of it clung to his darkening eyes.  “Beautiful Thalia. Come to me.”

It was a command.

Oh his quick girl; she tried to salvage...oh his insatiable girl...he heard her voice as clearly as if it had whispered directly into his ear.

“You did say that there were sleeping quarters on the plane?”

Oh bold girl. He felt himself quicken. 

Aegon’s mouth turned into a smile, cruel, avaricious. “Ah, yes. Let me take you. And let me have just you, my beautiful ghost.  That is, if it is alright with your close friend.”

Just her.

Jaqen did not allow his face to betray him. It was not the way, it was not how he had been trained; he knew every muscle in his face and how to make them behave.

Still, it was difficult, even as he felt her weight roll off of him. 

She leaned down and kissed him and he could not help but see - she was aroused, even without him, she was aroused…

And Aegon right there, his knees spread wide from the low chair, gathering his electricity up and then standing and leading her, leading her away, leaving Jaqen away, a masculine display of dominance, and she just followed him…

The small door opened and closed and then they were gone behind it, and Jaqen realized that his hand had moved to his gun.

He breathed in. And out. 

Just so. All will be well. A lovely girl can handle herself. And just so as it was his time, before, to spend with Aegon, now it was time for a girl. 

He tried to meditate against the noise of the plane, tried to still his mind, tried, tried.

But everytime his thoughts had cleared a new one came over the horizon, and the flash of violet and grey and white in his mind became more and more vivid.

_ Anton would not care, Anton would not care, Anton would not care… _

Jaqen repeated this in his mind, but the tangle grew brighter and more clear in his head.

Closing his eyes, he stopped fighting it and allowed himself to imagine it.  The two of them without him.  Something else entirely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my muse is elusive, I'm not reading, I'm not reviewing, I'm not really writing...get the whip out.


	37. torture

There was something wicked about Aegon.

Something even moreso, strange, walking the few short steps to the sleeping cabin. 

The plane droned on and Arya caught a glimpse of dusty land beneath them, dappled clouds interrupting the golden view.

She shivered. She’d just been ensconced in the warm arms of her husband, her husband, jolted awake by a bit of turbulence, this pale long man beckoning her like a siren and she wanted it, she wanted it. 

Something wicked about her.  

A balancing. She felt her chin jut out. Jaqen had taken this - or been taken, so far as she could tell.

Jaqen had taken this without telling her, without the intent to tell her.

Whatever warmth had clung to her from his arms dissipated and she felt the cool, stale air of the plane blowing over her.

Aegon closed the door behind her and turned in the small floorspace not occupied by the bed, a sterile thing, ensconced in grey.

And he looked at her. 

So far, even at his most aroused, he’d always kept a respectful air about him - different than with Jaqen.   _ So to see his eyes burning with something that saw through her… _

She felt nervous.

And in a flick it vanished, replaced by defiance.  _ Let him.  _

She sat on the edge of the bed, aware that her knees stuck out of the too-short dress, that her thighs were open and white in front of him, halfway expecting him to kneel again; one thing newly learned in her short time with Aegon was that he had an insatiable drive towards the edge of her and she twitched, thinking of his mouth on her...not the honey of Jaqen’s mouth, but driving, relentless.

One pale finger touched her knee and she startled from the contact, swallowed.

“You’re making me very jealous, you know. Seems that you’re at home wrapped up in his arms. Sweet Thalia.”

His other finger lowered to her other knee and she saw that he was straining against his pants, that long cock, purpled underneath it, she could imagine…

His voice got lower. “But you came from the shadows of  _ my _ past,  _ mine _ …”

She angled her throat so that her eyes looked straight up to him, felt the line of her neck exposed, that fucking cool air blowing, blowing on it…

 

_ Jaqen twisted in his seat. The silence had been unbearable but hearing the tones of Aegon’s voice, too muffled to distinguish words, syllables, his voice low, just for a girl... _

 

“From the shadows but now right in front of you. And what are you going to do?” She couldn’t believe the words came out of her mouth...Thalia’s mouth…but her body moved unbidden and she pushed her arms behind her, her spine pushing up towards him, opening her thighs further.

_ I know what you see. _

He made a low rumble in his throat and his hand tumbled over the buttons on his pants, grey fabric of boxers underneath, pushed down and aside and Arya saw what had been pushing against the fabric, the head of him pushing through foreskin, a platinum tangle of curls at the base of him, and then his hands pushing, pushing her down, knees pinning her, his weight heavy on her, eyes full of the sight of himself up against her.

His cock dragged on the fabric of her dress and she tried to move her arms, to pull the fabric away.

The movement enflamed him and he squeezed down harder on her; his face his beautiful face still cruel.

“What am I doing to do? Whatever I want.” A hand pinched at her breast through the fabric, suddenly too rough, and she could feel the heat from his cock through the dress, and she wanted it off, she wanted it off, she wanted...oh…

He moved up closer to her face and she could see the slit closer to her, he rubbed it back and forth along the line of her breastbone, her tits falling to the side save for the one he held, rubbing harder and harder, the friction creating heat against her chest.

And she was still pinned and could feel herself, hotter and wetter, preparing for him, feel herself start to ache for him, even as he kept her immobilized.

She needed him to move, she needed his hands on her, the fabric not allowing her to feel the too-hot skin, engorged, dragging along her.

She heard a noise escape from her own mouth.

“Whatever I want, Thalia. You’ve been so good. So good to me, so good to my sweet toy outside. But now I want you…”

HIs hands were suddenly ripping the dress, the fabric gone and she could finally feel his skin upon hers, god, even that..rubbing up against her...his hand trailing where he could see the white of it down to the base of his cock, pumping for a moment and then moving down behind him to her sex, yes..

But not quite, as his fingers moved lightly over her mound and on the inside of her thighs, drifting along the curve as they met her pelvis and softly down again, so soft, nothing like the glint in his eyes, madness.

She moaned. Torture.  _ Fucking take me… _

 

_ Jaqen stood in the plane, the narrow part just tall enough for him, and started to pace.  He heard her, soft long sounds, and Aegon’s voice sharp, low... _

 

He was amused.

“Whatever I want. Yes. Maybe I just want to cum right here, right on your pretty little neck. Maybe I want to cum all over you, call  _ him _ in here to lick it up.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His voice...and the thought of Jaqen lapping where Aegon’s cock had rubbed, rubbed against her...she groaned and felt her eyes flutter.

And felt the sharp edge of his palm as he slapped her, slapped her thigh, hard, before rubbing his fingers along her again, never entering her.

“Maybe I want in that mouth.” As he spoke he moved and she felt him push up against her lips, push past her teeth, his hips starting to move slowly, the angle wrong, her mouth too small to take him, pushing against her anyhow, small short thrusts and the taste of him, and her hands finally free, pushing against herself, finally…

The movement stopped him for a moment and he punished her, deeper thrusts into her mouth, filling her before quickly leaning back and grabbing her hands.

“Maybe I don’t want you to touch yourself. I’ve had to watch him touch you over and over.” His fingernails dug into her wrists and he pulled her arms up so that they were above her head, too far, too far, and his cock entered her mouth again.

She snarled. He was keeping her on the edge, he was keeping her too far…she could taste him start to leak in her mouth and she moved her tongue along the edge of him to gather it.

He laughed, cruel, and yanked her arms up, hard; his eyes fixated on the motion of her breast, rippling and suddenly his mouth was on it, his teeth his teeth…his cock pulled out of her mouth so he could suck her, blindly thudding against the soft skin of her belly, her hips pulling up to reach him, to grab him.

He sucked rhythmically and gently and then dispersed nips, hard, on her areola, dragging his teeth down the curve of her breast to the flat of her ribcage, burying his head in the soft of her belly and breathing in and out before biting the skin again, piercing her.

_ Madness.  _

She writhed. She could feel herself, she was sopping and still he had not penetrated her, not with tongue or cock, just his teeth on her skin…she could not take it any more.

“Please, please….”

 

_ At the closest point to the door Jaqen heard her, heard her distinctly, heard her ask and then ask again...he felt the blood drain from his face. _

 

This is madness. This is madness. She could not think straight, could not think beyond a split second, all sensation, the droning surreal surroundings, Aegon enflamed and mad in front of her, on top of her, just his teeth and his cock, too close, her hands painfully pulled above her head by his long pale arm, the play of his muscles so different on his abdomen, scattered.  Oh just...please…

“Say it again, Thalia.  Say it. Do you want something?” Cruelty, cruelty and he was speaking but she could barely hear him over the rush of blood in her ears, every capillary awake, ready for him...but he was torturing her…

“Please…”

He bit her, again, hard, pulling her arms down mercifully just to inflict pain on the meat of her inner thigh, so close to her but no, his mouth was back up, cruel glittering smile and the dark of his eyebrows arched against the pale of the rest of him…

He brought his mouth up and she could see her own blood on his lips, felt the pain still radiate where his teeth had been and he smiled again, madness and brought his other hand down between her legs, where it slicked from her readiness and pushed roughly up against her ass, pushed up against her until his finger had entered her, her cunt still throbbing from the lack of him...madness.

He moved his finger faster and pulled his other hand to yank her captive wrists and she twisted her body to meet him, saw that he was straining, his cock wettened by his own anticipation, needed him...

“Greedy.” He laughed again, short. “What do you want, Thalia?” 

“You. Want you.”

He raised an eyebrow and started to move his hand more quickly, almost painfully and she gasped, not enough, not enough…she moaned and asked again, louder as his movements pushed her body up and down, his hand so close..

“Aegon, now…”  She was ready to cry, she shouted and the word finished in a long, drawn out moan and then he sheathed himself in her, pushing, pushing, his fingers now out of her ass, gripping around her thigh and the other hand still so hard on her wrists. 

 

_ He heard her, he heard her, unmistakably her, so different when her mouth was not moaning underneath his, he felt his gun at his side, he could not let him take her, she was his his his and he forced himself to walk as far away from the door so that he did not open it and point the steel at the man who had reduced his bride, his beloved into this this this... _

 

Fuck, finally, finally and after the cruelty the feel of him sliding into her, she rose to meet him, relief, more more, wrapping her legs around him, finally losing his own control as he surged up against her and back, flipping her over so that she could ride him, just as she wanted and she sank down on him, grinding and finally finally she was she wanted…

And she clenched down on him, capturing him, relief spilling out of her mouth and his own body stretching and releasing, strangled noise of victory, of conquest out of him, his fingers gripping into her painfully hard, pulsing and exhaling.

 

_ She was so close, ravenous girl, he could hear her, he had heard her a thousand times before but only for him...Jaqen felt himself start to pulse as well, felt his seed warm against his pants, gun against his hand, oh lovely girl oh I am sorry...torture... _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm. seemed much longer to me while I was writing it. at any rate, straight up smut. merry christmas.


	38. Chapter 38

When Sansa made it home, she made sure she had recovered herself enough so that her grief would be invisible to the naked eye.  

_ Fuck him, he’s fucking infiltrated me...he’s a fucking virus, I am sick with him, sick with him now… _

_ I can’t fucking get rid of him... _

She tried to corral all of the feelings into anger. 

Instead a cold blankness covered her, more frightening than the anger itself. 

 

Willas was home, home from the office...she sighed, another task to handle, another set of unwanted emotions foisted upon her.

 

He looked up when she walked in and his face broke into a shy smile. 

“You were right...of course you were right, darling. It was good - no matter how little I actually accomplished - it was good to get into the office.”

She could barely muster a smile, and knew that he needed it,  _ needed something from her, he always needs something from me, _ chiding herself for being so selfish, for not being able to support him, so she bent over his head to press her lips to the top of it, wrapping her arms around his head.

_ Why can’t I love him anymore. _

_ Because you’re mine, you’re mine… _

 

She wanted to turn back the clock, back before she had ever encountered Petyr again, back before he was anything but a faint memory, a passerby in her thoughts. Back to when Willas was enough, more than enough, back to when she was able to picture a life in front of her not tainted by him, by false promises and impossibility and lies.

She roiled, sickened, silent; looming pressure of ugly, uncried tears behind her eyes and in her throat.  She weighed her options.

“I’m not feeling particularly well, Willas..I’m going to lay down.”  Flight, flight was the best option.

“Do you need - “ The concern in his eyes cut her like a dagger.

“Nothing, I don’t need anything, just a headache.” 

She walked off, not quickly enough, back to the guest bedroom and shut the door. 

Once she was mercifully alone, in the room that was not full of memories of her and Willas, staged to be comfortable so that the dead could visit, she leaned up against the door and crumpled and let the tears trickle out of her eyes.

_ I can’t fucking live with this, can’t live without it... _

 

_ You’re mine.  _

  
  
  


\--

  
  


His fingers weren’t soft, like Jaqen’s.

No, even in the soft moment after sex, where everything is tinged the same pink as snowy mountains at sunset, where the sudden plunge of dopamine gives way to a rush of oxytocin, gentle, warming.

No, even now, stretched out against her, she could feel him, his capriciousness.

And his fingers continued.

From another part of her she wondered about Jaqen, what he was doing in the plane, the dull roar of it unceasing, part of the aural landscape. 

And then a combination of defiance and empathy replaced it.

_ Of course he could not deny this Aegon. _

_ He never meant to. _

_ And he never meant to tell me, if I had not come here... _

 

And with that she turned and nestled up against Aegon, her ass seeking the heat of him, his long thin body less soft than Jaqen, angles and urgency, and the fingers, stiffly stuttering along the lines of her muscles, contrasting with the softness of his lips against her skin.

 

She lay there for a while, wondering: _ did Jaqen  _ need  _ him, need him like I just did? Did he need him because of me, was I not enough? Is  _ he _ not enough for me, now? _

 

And then the gravity of the situation stopped all of those small thoughts from ballooning in her head.   _ We’re going to Ashgabat, we’re going to have to tell Aegon, we have to get him taken away from all of this.  _

Her mind raced.

How to tell him.  Tell him, about the pipeline. She’d had an idea, she understood Aegon’s weakness.  While Jaqen could become almost monastic, living in a balance of his highest thoughts and his basest desires...Aegon was lightning, always moving back and forth between his urges and his thoughts, the line blurred.

She didn’t know whether to keep Aegon close or to try to pull Jaqen into the two of them, didn’t know which would help.

Ashgabat.  Foreign land.   _ Hope Varys knows what he is doing… _

She was glad, glad that Aegon couldn’t see her face, glad that his insistent fingers, almost cruel, had slowed.

Glad to lay up against him

 

_ He did it, too… _

 

_ And worse than me, he did it...without me, without telling me… _

 

Aegon’s finger had found her weakness, and she let him, let him touch her before she needed to roll over, needed to convince him to touch her further, more, more. 

When she moved she had to look up to his face and she grabbed for his lips, pulling one of them in her teeth, sucking the flesh and rolling it, moving her mouth down to his chin and tracing it with the point of her tongue.

And then looking up, up to his eyes, so greedy, pupils blown out by want, by need, by something…

“Aegon.”  She whispered. “What happens to you if they catch you?”

His cheeks swelled a bit with his smile, but she could tell that it was bitter, that it was forced.

“They’ve taken everything from me, Thalia.  Everything that is my right. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. Or try to.”  His arm snaked over her shoulder and she felt herself pushed up against his chest; his fingers moved down and stroked her, too hard, stroked her hip, stroked as far as they could reach.

“There’s nowhere you could go, if you wanted to escape? Couldn’t you just take everything and go somewhere else?”  Arya’s voice caught. _ Save you save you, save you from yourself, from Russia….save you from Varys’ lies... _

His lips caught her face again, but they only trailed around the middle of her forehead; his head moving side to side and she felt the softest stubble, almost translucent, felt it rub against her skin and she pushed one of her legs through his to make the same sensation again against the soft skin of her legs. 

“Ah, yes, of course. The world is full of places to hide, new places to see.”

“Then why not go? What does Anton have that you need so dearly?  Why not go somewhere else, be safe?”  _  Nothing he has nothing he has nothing he is no one...and you will die for it...won’t you... _

She felt his leg lock down on hers, felt his muscles change with the question, and he rolled over her and then she found herself on her back, his eyes staring down at her, focused.

“Anton...does have something that I need dearly. And then I will get it, and be done. Sweet Thalia, do you not know what happens once I own the pipeline? Even the President will be at my whim. Russia can not survive without the gifts that she receives from her children; this is the largest gift. My family has ruled in Russia before. There is a chance that I can as well. Better, stronger than what we have right now.  Currently the President just wants to enrich himself. But I…”  his voice trailed off and she felt his fingers around her wrists, tightening, those fingers…

“You….what…” She had to ask, ask him…

He answered her not, but put his lips against hers, and stilled all speaking, his weight too heavy on her, his mouth too insistent, and for a moment she lost everything, the plane, the bed, almost uncomfortable, the sterile grey of the sleeping cabin, droning sound as they made their way to a lie a lie. 

When he released his mouth,  he pushed himself up against her and she felt herself open for him, recieve him, take him; when he entered her again he groaned and started slowly, slowly thrusting, more gently than before, at first shallowly and then deeper and deeper within her so that she could not help but bloom underneath him. 

He fucked her, thrusting, intentional, aware of her every movement and moving each time so that each stroke was new, never felt, his eyes never leaving her face.

“You….what?” she gasped, wanting to hear his answer before she lost herself, lost herself to him again. She was only alive on the plane, she was only here, only here…

“When this is done, I can have all of it, everything that my father did not. And I want you, too, Thalia, want to keep you.”

He moved his hips up and she met him, inhaling, drunk in his movements, drunk in his voice, murmuring around her. 

For a moment, a breath, a heartbeat she thought about what that might have meant, and just as he moved his hips again she sucked her breath in and remembered.

 

_ Yours. Mine.  _

 

_ Jaqen. _

 

He had spent himself after watching her, watching her crest, and with the intensity of the possessed he watched her roll to the edge of the bed after he murmured that they were close to Ashgabat, close to landing. 

 

_ Jaqen, in the plane, by himself. _

 

Arya was afraid of what she’d see.

“You’ve been verrry rude to your guest, you know.”  She had shrugged what was left of the dress back on herself, aware that it was tattered, almost afraid to go in front of Jaqen.

Chin lifted.  _ He did this...this is his mess, his to clean up… _

That possessiveness flashed again in his eyes and he smiled, even though it did not match with the rest of his face.

“Of course.” 

He let her go and she escaped from the too-small cabin into the too-small plane, the sounds getting louder and louder as they moved closer to the foreign land. 

Jaqen’s face was bloodless, his eyes were red and he sat as if in a daze until she walked in front of him. 

“A girl has no honor.”  He whispered the words.

_ Why is this right for you but wrong for me?  _ She could not say a word, did not, but watched him, a sinking feeling in her belly...

He closed his eyes against her, shutting her out, not moving even as Aegon came out to the plane, stretching, and then sitting as that cool voice announced their arrival. 

The airport stretched out in front of them; it was shaped like a bird in flight, the ground was dusty yellow and the city flashed in white marble and gold, statues growing larger as they came closer to the ground and then the bump as they landed, Arya’s stomach falling faster than the plane.. _.how could she, how could she have… _

 

_ Ashgabat.  _

  
  


\--

 

Never had Melisandre been more grateful than now for the spies that were embedded all around Europe, all around Western Asia.  For they had told her exactly where the silver one’s plane would land; indeed, the Russian jet that she took was faster than AEgon’s plane, indeed she had landed at the airport and been met by a grey, inconspicuous towncar, waiting for her. 

Still no intelligence, still no sign of this Anton Zurali.  

She felt her lips curl. 

A false deity, you’ve chosen wrong, Aegon…

She still waited, but now she had given up hope and desire, and she was counting on fate to give her what she wanted, fate had always given her exactly what she wanted. 

She waited until she got the word, and then the car pulled out at a respectable distance, following through the desert and into the white and golden city.

_ Ashgabat.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh. 
> 
> kind of a lame chapter, sorry, not feeling all the way up to snuff atm. 
> 
> Do google Ashgabat, though - so strange, so lovely. 
> 
> Better stuff later when my head is back in the game, promise, though a tiny hiatus may be in order. xo <3 dear readers


	39. Chapter 39

_ Want to keep you.  _

 

Jaqen’s anger felt like it had materialized from the ether, like it was another being in the plane, standing next to him.  Arya could feel it, terrible.  She stole a glance at Aegon - he was intensely interested in the strange landscape in front of them and she could see the skin on his hands tighten as he clenched them.  He had given Jaqen a knowing smile when he walked out and Arya watched as Jaqen dipped his head, matching with his own predatory grin; she saw his eyes flash murderously as he looked away.

The weight in her belly started to immobilize her. 

_ What had they done. _

They were still taxiing into the gate. She became acutely aware of her state, the dress ripped, her hair shaggy and sweaty.  She turned, wordlessly, to find her suitcase, pulling a change of clothes and the small bag that held toiletries into the small bathroom on the airplane. 

In the mirror she stared at herself. 

_ Who the actual FUCK are you? Who are you, Jaqen outside the room, allowing him to suffer...Aegon on a string, ready to be fed to the rest of the Russians, they’ll cut his heart out… _

A stranger; heading into an unknown land. Enemies that she did not know. A city she did not understand.  No one. 

_ Jaqen will have talked to Varys, surely he will have something set when we touchdown into this make-believe city, white and gold and empty… _

No one stared back at her, no eyes that she could recognize though the grey looked familiar, no flicker of soul in the mirror.  Eyes that Aegon had looked at, claimed;  _ I want to keep you. _

Jaqen had taken a hammer to their marriage, and tried to rebuild it.  And she had thrown gasoline over it, lit a match. 

And burned herself in the process. 

She didn’t quite know what had caused her defiance. All of the hurt she had felt in New York, erased by the charm of Aegon between them, her nascent understanding of Jaqen’s temptation, splayed out in front of her. 

 

She shook herself. 

The noise of the plane took a different tone and she realized, her adrenaline ticking up, that they were slowing. 

She needed to slip back into Thalia completely, make sure that Arya Stark had gone away...make sure that she was ready to be a good accomplice to Jaqen.  To Aegon, to save him. 

_ It was the least she could do, the fucking very least.  _

There was a question mark around what would happen after...after what she did not know, but there would come a time when she and Jaqen would have to sort through the wreckage of their own creation.

Bracing herself, she realized she was biting her bottom lip. Exhale. She breathed in, and breathed herself out. Pushed herself out through her mouth, through her nose, into the ether, into the stale air of the plane. 

Thalia needed to handle this, Thalia needed to be present for Jaqen.

She dressed and carefully, quickly brushed out her hair and let it loosen, feeling it on her back, splashing her face with cold water, the blackberry stained lips that Thalia favored...and then raised her head, letting a little smile come to her face. 

She exited as they were standing together, low tones of their voices. 

“She emerges.”  Aegon’s head snapped up as she walked out, alert; Jaqen’s eyes merely moved towards her, inscrutable.

_ He’s so angry.  _

Without warning Jaqen strode to her and put his hands in her hair, pulling it into two sections on either side of her shoulder, tightening his fingers almost painfully and twisting her hair into two locks. 

“A woman coming to Turkmenistan...her hair should be in the custom, don’t you think?”  His eyes were hard and he was pulling painfully on her hair, only releasing it when it was twisted.  “It is of no matter, anyhow. We are used to Western women flouting our culture.” 

His lips moved into a smile but his eyes stayed hard, agate. 

The door to the plane opened and Aegon motioned for them to come; walking out into the hard yellow sunlight of the desert. 

 

\--

 

It was a dreamlike state, walking out and through the impossibly modern airport. Arya walked between them, and silently marveled at Jaqen’s composure: she couldn’t stop herself from staring at the building, at the people streaming around them; the unfamiliar dress.  Aegon moved as if he didn’t touch the ground, gracefully; Jaqen’s languid steps on her other side.

They navigated to ground transportation and Jaqen continued to walk as if he knew exactly where he was going, as if he knew exactly what awaited them.  Aegon had been quiet, subdued - he watched everything around him.

Finally. Closer and closer to the exit. Arya could feel herself ratchet up another notch, felt her pupils widen in adrenaline. Jaqen took his phone out; smiled at it. 

And walked over to a limousine parked against the side, a man opening the door, a face...a face that she recognized and she nearly fainted with relief. 

Gaani. 

Jaqen’s brother in the work he did with Varys.  The man who helped save her, after Meryn Trant had nabbed her off the streets of Paris - helped train her, the man whose sunny steadiness had given them all sanity during Jaqen’s last mission.

It took everything she had not to run to him, to remind herself that Thalia wouldn’t know this man; to drink in the wide smile she remembered.  She nodded to him as he held the door open for her; if only she could stop time, send Aegon away so that she could talk to him.

_ Gaani is here, here to help.  We are not alone.   _

Somehow the turbulence of the entire situation seemed to calm.  

 

\--

 

A man could not think clearly, until he was walking through the airport, the task of walking through it giving him cover, cover to consider his last several hours. 

_ It had been torture.  _

He could hear the soft noises, sharpening just so when the silver one touched her; he knew her sounds, could imagine her body responding, could smell her; the two of them tucked into the small cabin of the airplane...separated by a door that he had almost shot out over and over. 

And her face, defiant, as she walked in the room, and then mollified when she came out; he saw the brightness in her eyes, he knew…

It took everything he had not to take Aegon and slash his throat, bludgeon him, run his knife up along that face, break every bone in his body; tie him up and have his way with him,  _ fuck  _ him...and then kill him. 

At least that would exempt him from his duty to Varys.   _ Another mission. _ The relative freedom from clutching need, inserting himself into a different persona, free from his own demons.

Perhaps that was what was needed, to clear his thoughts; perhaps it was time to serve his duty again, to escape from the grasping fingers of his own desire, threaded tightly around his neck.

_ How could his own desire lead him to this darkest of places? The source of all joy turning into agony? _

Perhaps a year away from Arya would dampen the pain of it, the pain of seeing her with Aegon alone.

_ Or perhaps it would break him. _

A man knew that he shared blame. He should have told her; closing the door about the true nature of this last duty meant that he had introduced secrecy - his lovely bride knew each and every track of his thoughts, and he had stopped her, out of fear.

It was a cruel repayment that he was facing, now. 

No matter. 

Varys had situated him. There was a house, a house in strange Ashgabat. A warning: the Russians were close behind them.  And a lifeboat: a friend, an ally in this strange city.

All he had to do was play the game.

He wiped his face clean, clear of his own earthly worries.  They will keep, he grinned wryly; they will keep and fester and the mess will be even greater to clean.

But now: the task at hand.

_ Gaani, oh Gaani, my brother  _ \- serving as chauffeur.  He was so grateful to see him, a familiar face.  And Gaani knew where to go; the car moved and they sat in it, transfixed by the strange monuments, by the city completely landscaped and totally empty…

Mindlessly he joined his bride and that other one in discussing the strange city; Turkmenistan’s strange politics; the former president Niyazov banning dogs, of all things, changing the name of months on the calendar to reflect his heroes, himself…

Gaani knows where to go.  VArys had set them up, a grand house as befits someone of Jaqen’s stature, rented and procured on the double. 

And they would fortify it, and tell Aegon of their duplicity...and then try to convince him to go on the run. 

Jaqen felt his jaw tighten.  _ Would his bride run with Aegon? _

\--

 

They made it back to Ygritte’s apartment, but Jon motioned to the Jeep. When she was in the car he started it without the lights on and drove through the neighborhood, scattershot, taking block after block to head towards one of the old highways, two narrow lanes fallen into disrepair, less traveled, unlit ribbons winding through the dense forest and sudden meadows. 

Once they made it out of town Jon turned the lights on and they traveled in silence, wending through the woods. He was driving towards Winterfell; at least there they could get their footing, get out of Marquette, too many eyes. 

He kept Ygritte’s hand in his.  _ Keep you safe.  _ He could feel her, he could smell the acrid scent of her fear diminish, feel her breathing still the further away they got from Marquette. 

When he’d driven for an hour he pulled off the road, tucking the Jeep behind a stand of trees. He got out to piss, walked some of the strangeness off, listen to the deep night, the silence of the woods like a balm on him.

He breathed in the smell of the pines, overwhelming, the sweet smell of leaves starting to turn; the loam of the forest floor as enticing as anything he’d ever know. 

Back at the car he pulled out his phone. Three in the morning.  Didn’t matter. 

“General Mormont, sir.”

Old Jeor Mormont’s voice dragged like whiskey straight from the bottle, but his words were alert. “Jon. What is it.”

He told him, told him about the altercation. About the man, his face red and bleeding, their attention to Ygritte, the quick departure. Told him as succinctly as he could...but the fear of them, and the anger - _ this is not the government that he fought for, almost died for  _ \- the anger was still in his voice. 

Jeor grunted, the old bear, grunted until Jon had finished. 

“Go south. Go south. You can stay at Winterfell for a day, maybe two, but get away from the border. That’s where they are. They’re closing the borders. Get further south, get in the middle of a mass of people. They won’t find you.”

Jon sighed. “Ay, sir.”

“I’ve got people in Russia, people in Europe; trying to find a way out of this. Or at least stop some of it.  But you get caught, Jon, and you can either salute the Russian flag or die trying not to, it’s going to be up to you. Go south, blend in. I’m going to need you and you’re useless to me as a corpse. Call me when you get somewhere big enough to hide you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the little break, it's been a busy few weeks. hoping to get back into the rhythm of regular writing, and soon!
> 
> And..Gaani is an OC from Superior. Sorry, I'm not really capable of elegantly weaving in his backstory...(you did want another chap this year, no??) : ) So here's his backstory, from Arya's POV:
> 
> \--  
> When they exited she was surprised to find a man waiting for them. It was not the same man she had seen at the airport in London; he was tall, his face dark, kind but remote. Jaqen motioned for her to stay put as they moved aside and spoke in a language Arya could not divine. She felt the man assess her, indirectly; she knew he was absorbing more information than any casual bystander would.
> 
> Jaqen introduced her and she acknowledged his trust in her; this was an associate, not a friend.
> 
> “Gaani. This is Arya Stark.” 
> 
> Not Mercy, here, with this man. Arya bowed, smiled, and observed him. She saw their power structure; he was not subservient to Jaqen but in whatever way they were related, Jaqen was respected by Gaani.
> 
> The trust Jaqen bestowed upon her was not unnoted.
> 
> Gaani bowed goodbye, kissed her on both cheeks, let his smile reach his eyes as he left them.
> 
>  
> 
> “We’re here, we’re here!!” Enthusiasm rose through her.
> 
> “We are, and we aren’t, lovely girl. We still have a small way to travel.” Jaqen shook a set of keys in his hand.
> 
> Gaani had brought them a car. Freedom - a very American thought - we’ll be free to go as we wish.
> 
> She shivered, and they drove out of magical Barcelona in the tiny Fiat, making their way past villages, with Jaqen explaining about Gaani as he drove fast, keeping an eye out for the Guardia Civil to make sure that his haste would not backfire.
> 
> “Gaani is one of the first a man had met. He has become like a brother to me, in some ways. Having a trustworthy soldier at hand is most convenient - having one that you respect and like - that is something else entirely.”


	40. Chapter 40

Sansa was jumpy, nervous, a cat waiting for something to move in the grass, anything. Willas was back at work, but at home alone the clock ticked and she watched it, waited.   _ Something needs to happen. Something needs to happen.  _

Petyr was right, of course:  _ you’re mine _ . She tried to discard him, tried to discard her feelings for him and  _ be present _ with Willas.  But everything her sweet husband did set her on edge, every single fucking little movement was incendiary, either not enough or too much, lighting off a powder keg of annoyance within her. Each footfall. The way he held his hands while he spoke. The seemingly small things that captured his attention.

He wasn’t enough. Wasn’t big enough for her, and the realization that she had truly fallen out of love with him soured her days. 

Still she soldiered on - a duty.  She had blocked Petyr’s number on her phone; she could see that he’d called, if she looked deeply enough.  Only one time of doing that and the temptation rose and she had to steady herself not to call him back. 

_ You’re done with him, you can’t have him now.  _

At the end of the longest night in her life she found herself in her bed, goose down pillows under her head, a book in front of her and Willas stretched out beside her.  She tried to signal her aloofness, keeping her book close to her face, even as she felt his faltering hand along her, felt him start to touch her with tentative strokes, pulling her face closer to him for a kiss that tasted too much like flesh, like something over-sweet. 

His hand moved tentatively over her, and then his fingers pushed in against her stomach, trying to pull her closely.

She was unmoved by his touch, a petulant wave of annoyance stretched over her as felt his flesh move on hers.  Irritation, a swallowing a cactus, thorns in her mouth, muting her.  

He didn’t see it.  _ He sees nothing.  _

Closing her eyes against it, those unasked-for hands, moving down her side. 

Closed her mind against the feeling him, moving against her, starting to rut against her, joyless. He separated her with his fingers and licked them, pushing up against her and into her.

She kept her eyes closed.

It was easier than pushing him off. 

 

When he was finished he kissed her again, looking at her quizzically and she closed her eyes again, closed them against his endless needs and all of his wants and her own self, ashamed and angry.

Pulling herself away, feeling him fall out of her, she curled up with her back against him.

She needed an out.  In her mind she flew above herself, above all of this mess.

Waiting until Willas fell asleep, she stole out of their bedroom and curled up downstairs with the laptop.

_ I need to leave. Leave all of it.  _

She wondered if she had ever met Petyr, if she would have felt this discontent with Willas, felt like she was so trapped. 

_ Fucking Petyr Baelish _ .  She and Arya had sing-songed that name when they were younger, disgusted by him. But she had seen through him. He had transcended into something else. 

_ How she wished she could put him back in that box.  _

It hurt, it fucking hurt. It was an obsession. But one she couldn’t have. She couldn’t, not now, her mother’s daughter, wouldn’t allow her to be with him,  _ murderer, murderer _ . She finally found her strength, found it against him.  The  _ want _ was still there, a thing alive on its own, but at least now she could see the lies in him, at least now she could see how twisted he was.  

_ Olenna Tyrell.   _ She forced herself to think of Olenna Tyrell over and over, to try to disgust herself, inoculate herself against this virus. 

She pulled her spine straight, pulled herself from curling on the guest bed to a more upright position. Another way to inoculate herself was pride.  Too good, too good for this…

_ Time to make her own destiny.  _

It was time for her to have another black asterisk in her mind over a carefully chosen day, perhaps a red star, perhaps this time a lightning bolt.  But this time the only person that would make it be so was her. 

She started to make her plans. 

  
  
  


\---

 

Gaani’s presence was immensely comforting to Arya, even as they could barely see him in the front of the limousine, the screen between the driver and the driven separating them.  He was a horizon, a north star. 

But he was here, he could help...he  _ knew _ Jaqen. 

And he _ knew _ Arya. 

For a moment, shamed, she wondered what Gaani would think of the two of them unmoored, of Aegon in between them, a fine platinum wedge.  

_ With his hand, pale and long, spread across her thigh. _

She knew Gaani wouldn’t pass judgment, not on either of them...but still...

 

Jaqen pointed to a few of the strange sights in the city as they drove by: Ashgabat was a marvel of gold and white marble, of too-huge statues and not enough people. Surreal on the outside of the car, surreal on the inside.  His voice was louder, more assured; silently she observed that he had passed back into the Anton persona, more animated than  _ her  _ Jaqen. 

After his initial reaction he had seemed to cool back down to normalcy with her; she no longer  _ felt _ his anger.  He looked at her with a detachment; he kept his attention on Aegon. And Aegon responded; as they started to speak of business Arya felt his fingers tighten on her thigh, felt him move restlessly.  Details on banking, on transfers; he moved sharply, quickly again; half-mad and half-searing, his words tumbling out faster and faster.  He was focused on Jaqen, with only his hands on Arya occasionally gripping her to indicate that he still was aware of her form against his. 

The lie, the lie of the pipeline was intoxicant to him. 

The inside of the car felt like it was shrinking.

Arya twinged.  _ What if we _ did  _ just leave him? What if we just left him here, in Ashgabat...let the Russians find him...if there was no pipeline at all perhaps the president would have mercy… _

A pretty thought. She scoffed at herself. Prettiness makes graves. The Russian president would gut him, publicly, for such treason.  Aegon wouldn’t be the first...a smear of blood marked the last steps of so many others that had disavowed him, that had tried to take whatever capital the president thought should be his. 

_ Leave him and take Jaqen and force all of this out of his head, out of my head… _

The air in the car felt as if it were growing hotter, denser, harder to breathe. 

They passed through the city center and into a neighborhood; the car smoothly pulled up to a gate and Gaani made his way through it.

_ Fuck.  _

_ “Anton’s house” _ , as it were, was ornate, overdone, and palatial.  The sheer task at hand for Jaqen, navigating this house, pretending as if it were his...Arya twinged at the impossibility of it, of the skill of the act. 

 

\--

 

She was grateful that she was allowed to gawk, that she was allowed to look around in wonder. The filthy rich of Ashgabat, beyond anything she had seen before.  They stopped in some type of sitting room, gaudy, enormous. 

Jaqen wore a magnanimous smile on his face.  Fitting, the host of this house. 

Thalia marveled. Perhaps this will help him…

“This is unbelievable. But yet you say you’re in Cyprus more...your flat in Cyprus is lovely, but this…this is…”

As the words fell from her mouth she realized that she hadn’t addressed him since they left the plane. 

She tried to catch his eye.   _ Soon this will be over, soon, soon...keep your head.   _

“Too much, no?  I always find the houses in Ashgabat to be more than I need, more than I like. I’ve just moved into this one, and it’s still difficult to find my way around in.”  Jaqen gave an easy smile for her, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

She reached out, touched his arm; for a moment she felt time stop as he caught her gaze.

She wanted him to hear her:  _ it will be okay. It will be okay.  _

Something softened in his face, just for a moment, a flicker; Aegon then moved over and walked up behind him, palmed his back softly, excited.  Jaqen stepped away from her, keeping her gaze.  Aegon reached one long arm around him, and placed his face in the crook of his shoulder, kissed it gently.

She kept his gaze, smiled at him slightly and then up at Aegon, though he didn’t see it.  Silver and gold, the two of them, the thread of this whole thing tied between them. If they can only keep this up for a little bit longer. If they can keep Aegon whole and safe, and deliver him to Varys, she could get out with Jaqen.

Jaqen reached for her, and pulled her closer to him; Aegon was behind him and reached around to grab her, cupping Jaqen in the middle. She leaned against her husband, her loved one. 

She felt her heart surge, a little bit; a fighting spirit, to keep him.  _ Oh beloved. What have we done. Whatever it is, we will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay.  _

_ It will be.  _

  
  


\--

 

Melisandre settled into the hotel room. The Ashgent, overdone and overblown, just like everything else in this surreal, cursed city: white and gold. 

She pored over her laptop. They still hadn’t been able to trace exactly where the Targaryen had gone, but now she had a better idea of who he was with.

The intel files were marked highly classified, but no matter. She’d been given clearance. At the end of this mission was recognition. And the promise of some of the Targaryen spoils. Access to the aluminum mine. The President’s finance minister was drawing up the paperwork now. 

This could be the last job that she took, if she so desired. 

The files were short, small; the Targaryen’s lover was a secret man, had a quiet past. 

But his death was certain. And at long last he had a name. 

_ Jaqen H’ghar.  _

  
  



	41. ephemeral

This  _ Jaqen H’ghar _ was hard to trace. 

 

He was ephemeral. A ghost. Melisandre would have been impressed. Almost. If it hadn’t meant such an...interruption...in her plans.

In her goals. 

The intelligence she had received was delicious, even though it was the smallest morsel. She could feel herself want more, more. This was not just some lover, idly taken up by the Targaryen. There had to be another purpose to him, there had to be a reason that Jaqen H’ghar had seduced Aegon, right from underneath her nose. 

She wondered, wondered what his motivation was, as she pored over his file and over it again. 

_ This man. _ There was some connection, albeit brief, negative, to the homeland.  _ Shadowy. _ He was suspected in the death of a woman that had been running an arms contract years ago. A friend of a friend of a friend of the President, who had been put in charge of some of the lesser elements of arming Isis fighters. It had been hugely profitable. Melisandre herself had watched the family, initially; unimpressed with the woman’s manner...but she was effective enough. Until she was dead, and that’s where this man came in. When Cersei was found dead, it seemed that Jaqen H’ghar was seen near her apartment; just as cameras had picked him up near the scene where Cersei Lannister’s brother was found dead.  Picked him up, carrying a small bundle of a woman, her face pixelated beyond recognition and quickly put into a car, speeding out of the Paris suburbs.

And then not seen again.

That was where his file began and ended. Melisandre tried to divine other facts about him; facial recognition software did nothing for her, strange for a man that was so handsome, that his face would not be  _ anywhere _ on the internet. 

She turned to searching Aegon; image search showed row after row of him, a bright light in each photograph. She twinged: a photo of him on the fast cigarette boat; a profile in a Cyprus column. He had taken her there; she thought of his eyes, violet, darkened when he looked at her. And then all of this had happened...

Aegon’s behavior had been suspect since he’d last kept her company. The man had been seen with him, traveling; in Cyprus and then to Moscow, quickly heading back. Another person with him, undescribed. Melisandre wondered if it was the same dark-haired woman she’d seen before. None of this in her image search, however; a file of documents on the dark internet. 

The strange man’s constant presence was out of character for the Targaryen. Was he serious about this?  _  Likely not _ . The Targaryen appetite was known, and he consumed people, he consumed them and then opened his great mouth and stretched his tongue out for another; savoring their taste and licking their bones clean, always wanting more.  _ Targaryen madness. _

But this man, this H’ghar...not being able to find him, record after record searched, scrubbed, made the fine hairs on Melisandre’s arms stand.  _  Nothing. _ No online trace, no country of origin; even the name carried no meaning. 

 

_ Perhaps it’s time to ask a greater authority.  _

 

She didn’t have a fireplace in the hotel, of course. But she did have candles, and she had made sure that she had lots of them. 

Lighting them in the dark room, she murmured to herself, willing something to come from the flames. She pushed away her recent failure: the flames will show what they want to, and when they want to.  As their servant, it is not her job to expect them to show her something. It is her job to be open, open to their light, open herself up to the light that banishes dark corners, dark thoughts, the long night full of terrors. 

 

She stared. 

After a while, she nodded her head. Something had come, something was happening...but she couldn’t quite understand the meaning of it; when the flames converged and flickered from nothing to the image, a face, she did not see who it was.  

But she felt it, as it materialized and then fell apart; felt it drip across her skin just as surely as the flames had touched her. Felt it wrap around her neck, gasping for breath and then just as quickly as the flames would dance it left, left her all alone.

It was not a good omen. 

But for who, she did not know.

Surely the flame would protect her.

When the candlelight started to stutter, when the smoke from the candles turned acrid she let them burn out and then moved to her bed.  Sliding her body into the too-cold sheets she pushed her legs across the bed, trying to find the coolest spot, realizing that the temperature of her body would let nothing stay cool.

Tucked into a sheet, smoldering to herself, she slipped a hand down to her belly and traced the soft skin, little circles, wider and softer until she felt her stomach move to try to capture her own touch.

All the while in her head she pictured his face, the face of the man who was no one, the face of the man who had interrupted her work, her life’s work. 

Interrupted her time with the silver Targaryen.  In another lifetime, in another universe she would have given everything to keep his attention. She thought of him as her fingers slipped lower, the image of his mouth moving towards hers, the long arm snaking around her.  Sweet. Temporal, gone. 

She closed her eyes against it, sucking breath past her lips, determined to capture whatever she could remember of his fingers.  

  
  


\--

 

When she woke the next morning the Ashgabat sky was muted, grey. She showered and dressed. She usually preferred lighter arms, smaller guns; but then again, she was not typically so engaged in the final moments of her targets.

Today, however, it was personal; today she was able to serve both her President as well as herself. 

  
  


\--

  
  
  
  
  


They had lunched, food brought in silently by Gaani who then vanished. Arya looked after him longingly:  _ I need to talk to him. _  An uneasy peace between herself and Jaqen. Arya was starving; she had to force herself to slow down.  Starving, tired. A vulnerable state. She still felt herself, pulsing low; she had been hypersensitized in the past few days. The two of them, beyond anything the darkest, lushest edges of her imagination could conjure...their lips, their mouths. How is this even possible?  She wanted to lay out, boneless, float away from this sweet-edged nightmare, or possibly float back into it.  

At least Aegon had returned to chattiness, to his quickness; sly remarks and then his eyes would smile. to the sort of attentive, suggestive neutrality that looked at both of them as one delicious package; that in itself was a relief. The burden of his favor was heavy; without it, she saw Jaqen start to relax; he teased her, for a moment, as she was wolfing down one of the little Turkmen dumplings.  Aegon looked over at both of them with fondness.  Arya feigned a grin and finished the dumpling in one bite.

After lunch Arya excused herself. _ I need space, I need room to think. _ Ostensibly to look around this great house without the pressure on Jaqen to fabricate a story about each room.  She left them talking about, of all things, a Turkmenistan scholar. Jaqen was, she marveled, convincing.   

She left, smiling back at them before pretending to explore the house. Her mind was on Gaani, and she opened doors, scanning rooms for him. Nothing, just hallway after gaudy hallway.  How did Varys even  _ find _ this place?

She wanted to call him, find out. She didn’t know the next act in this unfamiliar play.  _ How long do we have to keep this up? _  The tangle of feelings for Jaqen weighed on her, and she tried to shake them off:  _ I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I need to make sure that I’m ready, ready… _

She made her wandering more purposeful, looking at windows and doorways; exits, places to hide, potential weapons. _ Just like Jaqen had taught her. _

A side office, glorious with dark red, a carved desk proved useful. Crossed above the desk on a wall were two scythes; ornamental to be sure, but Arya’s finger, for all it’s gentleness, stung and came away with a red seeping line.  Sharp.  _ Okay.  _

Out the windows she could see the gates around the house; a garden in the back, less well-kept than the inside of the house.  A garage, where she half-expected Gaani to emerge from around the corner.   

But he did not, and her thoughts turned back inward. They’d tell Aegon. They had to. Today. She needed this to end. And then send him off -  _ is that the deal Jaqen had made with Varys? - sending him off somewhere in relative anonymity for a while? A trade, because then Jaqen is back on duty, as well? What if Varys sent Jaqen  _ with  _ Aegon? _

That was something she hadn’t entertained, yet and the thought of it made her stomach plummet. In the wide hallway she stopped, bending over to place her palms on the floor, feel the stretch of her muscles and wash her tension away.  She kept moving, a short series of yoga stretches, and then pulled herself up to move more quickly, move into fighting stance; loosen up her legs and arms, still her mind, even her breathing. 

 

Enough. 

 

Backtracking she came closer to the sitting room where she’d left them. She could hear Aegon’s voice and her feet stopped in their tracks and she moved out of their sightline, to where she could just see them from the shadows of the hallway. 

Two voices, intertwined. They were huddled close, standing over a laptop, and Aegon was asking Jaqen question after question. Arya saw Aegon laugh and kiss the flat of Jaqen’s cheek after a question; Jaqen leaned into it for the space of a heartbeat and then continued.  

She wondered how long Jaqen could keep the lie up, how long he’d have to continue speaking in the foreign language of pipelines, partnerships. One part of her was fiercely proud of Jaqen; she heard him murmuring the details, details of a pipeline that - as best she could divine - did indeed exist. Jaqen’s ownership of any of it was another thing, but she knew, she knew:  _ the best lie was rooted in truth.  _

There were field offices, for the Trans-Afghanistan Pipeline as it met and plundered the spoils of Turkmenistan; field offices and men dedicated to working along its line. 

There were soldiers, as well; this pipeline was built to bypass both Russian and Iranian interests. 

Of course, none of these men had ever heard of Anton Zurali. A house of cards, waiting to be pushed over with the smallest feather.

Arya shivered.  _ We have to tell him. How... _

Arya listened, listened to them discuss; Aegon laughed, a dark thing, as he spoke of the President’s desire to take over this project. The profit was obscene. Russian pride, wounded: circumventing the Russian government had been the primary goal of the Afghan, Pakistan and Turkmenistan investors and the Russians had been trying to find a way in on this pipeline with no success.

At last she heard it, heard the why of this as Anton’s voice rose.

“They will not have this, they will not have this thing. At the least, there will be no Russian government involved.”

Jaqen’s voice, still wrapped in Anton’s accent, lowered and Arya watched, fascinated, as one of his great, golden hands moved to Aegon’s shoulder.  “My dear, you are not the Russian government? Your whole life, your family and all of your ancestors, and you can still look at me and tell me that you do not represent the Russian government, in your bones?”

“Even in your death?” Arya heard him laugh bitterly. “They will kill you for this, and take you back to Moscow, and parade your body around. And yet you’ll still be Russian, your skin, your eyes, all of you -  you’ll still be one of the President’s chosen.”

Aegon turned Jaqen to him, wrapping an arm tightly around his waist. From her vantage point, tucked back in the hallway, she could no longer see his face nor Jaqen’s, and they were no longer speaking, but she heard the soft sound; kissing; Jaqen’s legs parted and she saw Aegon rub his leg through, up against what she was sure was Jaqen’s stiffening cock.

 

_ Gods the two of them.   _

 

She stared.  _ Transfixed. _ Until suddenly she heard something behind her, and she spun, as quietly as she could, making herself small.

The white of Gaani’s eyes shone in the dark hallway and he beckoned her to follow him, silently. 

He moved catlike down the hall and she followed him around a corner and into a bedroom. He shut the door, carefully ensuring that the hinges did not squeak and then moved to the far corner of the large room.

Arya threw her arms around him, hugging him.  “Oh, Gaani, Gaani...I’m so glad you’re here.”

He squeezed her and then put his fingers to his lips.  “Arya Stark,” a whisper, “How did you two get wrapped up like this?” 

His face spread into that gentle, broad smile that she loved.  Still, she couldn’t keep his gaze.

“I was hoping that you could tell me. Thank you for being here. I don’t have any idea what is going to happen.”  She barely mouthed the words, the silence in the room too precious to break, hoping he could understand her. To her relief he nodded. 

“Varys wanted me here, and Varys wants  _ him _ to finish this job.” He gestured to the door.

Arya chewed her bottom lip. “Why? Why did he need  _ him _ to do this?”  She tried, oh she tried to keep her voice down, but she saw Gaani’s eyes widen.

“You know my brother would never hurt you?” Gaani pressed his face closer to her ear and she could hear the timbre of his voice, just loud enough. “He tried to tell Varys no. I don’t know why he wanted Jaqen, but so it goes.”

Even though his voice was barely a whisper, she heard the kindness in it. “And I heard that there are problems. You’re okay?”

Arya nodded. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know...with Jaqen...I don’t know.”

Gaani pulled away and looked at her sympathetically. 

“No one does. You just need to remember that you’re working with him, not against him. There’ll be time later.  But there isn’t any  _ now _ . Listen to me.”

He leaned in.  “There are about four Russians, one woman and three men. They don’t know about you. They know about the pipeline, know that Jaqen is full of shit. The woman is enraged. She was Aegon’s lover right before, well, right before the two of you.” 

There was no judgment in his voice but Arya still hung her head slightly. 

“No,  _ listen _ . I’ve tucked weapons away for you. Look under the beds, look in the cabinets. There are six guns hidden in the house. Have you trained, since you left Paris?”

Arya nodded. She and Jaqen would go to the gun range when she was in Chicago; when they moved to New York they’d set up a little shooting range on their property. Jaqen was still impossibly accurate; Arya was slightly less so but still a passable shot. 

“If the Russians aren’t in Ashgabat yet,  _ they will be _ . You should finish this, quickly. Varys told me to get you two out of here when you’re ready. Best situation is to make sure that the Targaryen wants to go, that you can use his plane.  Worst case, I drug him and we drive. Varys doesn’t have many little birds here to help.”

Arya shivered. 

“And Arya, even if you take out the Russians that are coming, there are still more. Best not to poke at the hornets nest and killing the first guard. Finish whatever you have to do, quickly. Stay away from the windows, doors. No one else is coming. But I’m here.”

Arya hugged him again, even though his words struck down to her very core.  “Thank you.”   _ Sweet Gaani, sweet Gaani… _

He kissed her forehead.  “Just remember. You need each other, right now. Flesh is flesh, it is nothing. Is Jaqen still not in your soul, in your mind? That is what counts. The rest is nothing.”

He motioned to the door.

Arya moved, silently, heart grateful. She chastised herself. _ Whatever fucking nightmare we’ve created can wait. We just need to get through this… _

She came out in the hallway and then purposely made her steps loud, so they’d turn and see her. 

“Ah, did you find anything? You were gone for quite some time.” Aegon’s face turned to her. His face lit up to see her, and for a moment his smile dazzled, pinned her.   _ Aegon, you’re so fucking beautiful... _

“No...just room after room after room. Are you making progress?” She turned the question to Jaqen. 

“Some, yes. This is complicated, however - we may not finish for a few days.” He hesitated to speak to her, and when she felt the pause she met his eyes.

_ A few days? We have to finish this.  Oh Jaqen. He feels guilty, guilty. Just as I do. _

_ He’s all I have, right now, right here.  _

His eyes, so beautiful, gateway to a million secrets, oh her love...Gaani was right, this was all of the flesh, but Jaqen was the universe, laid out in front of her, curled up inside of her. She walked under him and stood on tiptoes to reach her lips up to his; she could feel Aegon’s gaze on her but it did not have the fire, the jealousy of before. 

She kissed him quickly and then stood below him, looking up: the crook of his neck, his cheekbones so sharp and high, but a softness to his face, catlike. 

_ Mine. Yours.  _

“You’ve been working for hours. Take a break?”  _ It will be easier to tell Aegon when he’s heavy-lidded, cradled between us. _ She turned so that her back was to Jaqen and leaned into him, turning so that she could see Aegon; Jaqen’s hand found it’s way to her hip and she put her hand over his, the comfort of his touch, the shape of the musculature of his arms, his fingers, so familiar…she nestled against him and looked over at Aegon.

 

Aegon leaned back and his eyes narrowed as a smile played on his face, watching her.

“I suppose that this deal isn’t going to go anywhere. I think we can stop, for a bit.”

 

Arya kept the same smile on her face, but at Aegon’s words she felt Jaqen’s muscles stiffen momentarily.   _ No, it’s not going anywhere, Aegon... _

He moved towards the two of them, and he engulfed them both. Their smells were overwhelming; ozone and citrus and spice and skin. Aegon kissed Jaqen, above her head, and she rested her forehead on his chest.

_ Fuck, whatever we’re doing, it feels good _ ...the hard planes of Aegon in front of her, Jaqen softer to the touch behind her.  Two sets of hands, moving on her, and when their kiss broke Aegon moved to take her lips while Jaqen leaned down and planted shivery kisses along the side of her neck, stopping to suck at the curve of her shoulder, before pulling up the hem of her dress and continuing the kisses down the line of her spine.  _ Just of the flesh, but the flesh is the gateway to the divine... _

Aegon broke from her and took the dress and pulled it up, over her head; it floated like a parachute from his fingers.

She shivered.

Jaqen picked her up, her legs flopping over his arms like a ragdoll; she looked up at him and saw his eyes, heavy-lidded and his mouth curve into a smile at her; her heart thudded.  He carried her out of the sitting room, down the same hallway she had hid in, into the first bedroom door where she had just whispered secrets with Gaani. 

 

She couldn’t help but look around, quickly. The room was empty.

 

Aegon came behind the two of them, dark eyes watching as Jaqen laid her gently on the bed, pulling her underwear down her thighs, tugging, and bringing them against his face before he discarded them, leaning and kissing the arch of her feet before he rose and turned to Aegon.

 

The buttons of Jaqen’s shirt were quick work for Aegon’s hands and Jaqen’s skin glowed, softly gold, and his pants were soon off and she stared at them, as Aegon stood in front of her, kissing where his hands had been, kissing the soft trail of hairs that she had stroked so many times, kissing down to the top of Jaqen’s cock, rapidly stiffening to point towards Aegon’s mouth.

Arya couldn’t stand it. They were so beautiful together.  _ The flesh the flesh reveling in what it could, before the whole world changed...before Aegon knew the truth... _

She couldn’t bear to watch them; her entire body had awoken.

She moved behind Jaqen and reached her hands around the cheeks of his ass, kneading them, spreading them, stroking the raised line of skin between his ass and his scrotum, her fingers moving into Aegon’s mouth, caressing the thickness of Jaqen, moving in opposite with Aegon. She sunk her teeth into the lushness of Jaqen’s ass, right in front of her, sucking and biting the skin. 

Jaqen groaned and moved; she felt one of his hands reach into her hair, clutching it as his breathing intensified. Aegon’s mouth came off Jaqen’s cock with a soft, wet sound and Arya’s fingers dragged back and she moved. Jaqen grunted; he bent and reached for the Aegon’s soft lips before turning his attention to Arya. 

 

His full attention...his mouth covered hers, pushing Arya down onto the bed, running the edges of his teeth up her thigh before clasping his mouth onto her.

_ He always...he always knows…. _ she felt a warm wave consume her, a vibration as his tongue slipped deeper and then back up, his teeth cruel and then tender lips. She wrapped her thighs around his head, to keep him.  

Aegon made a noise and dreamlike, appeared over her; he had shed his clothing. She reached for him, for those different kisses, sharper, and for a moment the two of them over her...

She writhed, pinned between them, and then Jaqen moved up and she felt him push against her, felt his body up against hers, felt Aegon move out of the way, giving Jaqen an appreciative kiss and then watching, darkeyed, as Jaqen kneaded his fingers on her thighs and pushed his cock in one fluid movement.

_ God…just flesh just the flesh but the flesh is the connection to the divine... _

He filled her, moving slowly; Aegon grunted appreciatively from the side and Arya closed her eyes against it, against all of it...and then moved to meet Jaqen, to tell him with her lips what she could not say.  Her legs twined around his waist and they moved as one, Jaqen pulling her upright and holding her to him, raising her. 

Oh the sweetness of it…his mouth on her neck, whispering what she could not hear, his arms like iron around her, keeping her. 

They clung, for how long she did not know, and then she felt the bed move with Aegon’s weight behind her, felt his hands on her.

“You’re so beautiful...fuck, you’re so fucking perfect…” Aegon’s voice was rough and she felt him nudge up against her, slowly, slowly, his finger stretching into her other, slick by her own making, and then his finger was up in her, pushing against the muscle to stretch it, up against Jaqen inside of her…Jaqen felt it and slowed and then one of his arms moved off of her back and she felt Aegon’s warm body take it’s place and the finger moved, was replaced, and she was full, she was full of the both of them, and Aegon’s mouth on her and they struggled to find a rhythm, she was full, she was full of them, the searing pain from Aegon replaced itself with something else as Aegon rubbed up against Jaqen inside of her…

Aegon’s mouth was on her neck and then met Jaqen’s over her shoulder and they claimed her, she claimed them, strangely powerful to have them both, and it was too much…

Filled by the two of them, caged between their arms, their kisses first on each other and then on her Arya thrummed, coming to orgasm and then again, relentlessly between the two of them as their movements quickened and slowed and then she felt Aegon swell even further and release, his rhythm stuttering…

_ Flesh the divine it is the portal it is everything _

He growled and his arms tightened on her, on Jaqen and Jaqen could not hold back and he crested as well, and she was floating floating over all of it…

 

They were nestled together, tangled, sticky sweet, panting; blissful. As she came down she remembered.  _ We have to tell him.  _

_ Sooner rather than later.  _

This moment was fragile, beautiful. Ephemeral. It could not last. 

Tangling her legs even further into Aegon’s, she twisted her face to look at Jaqen. Reaching to kiss him, she kept his eyes.  _ Now.   _

Jaqen saw. He knew. Once he started to tell Aegon, so soft behind her, his legs twined into both of theirs, it would all change. A lifetime might have passed, Arya was memorizing Jaqen’s face, this moment  _ before.   _

He gave an almost imperceptible nod and she closed her eyes against all of it. 

Jaqen cleared his throat. “Aegon,” he whispered. “Sweet Aegon. The only person I would ever share my bride with.”

Arya felt him move behind her and she turned to see him, to witness the betrayal on his face.  And to capture the last time he might look at her with the same rapture in his eyes.

It hadn’t computed, yet; Aegon was still lost in that blissful state after orgasm; Arya felt her soreness and knew that he was still throbbing as well.

His eyes took a moment to clear and then they were vivid lavender pools, softly gazing upon her.

“What is it my sweet?”

“Aegon.” Jaqen continued. 

He couldn’t say anything else. 

Outside the house, Arya heard a car come into the driveway, heard doors slamming and the sound of booted feet, running up to the door. 

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck... _

Adrenaline pierced through the sweetness, animated her every movement; Jaqen stiffened and jumped out of the bed. 

She whirled.

“They’re here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nice long chap to make up for the delay. <3
> 
> ETA 10/4: Ack, my work is sucking my brain completely dry. Be back in a week or two...!


	42. Imposter

Her new...directive...had caught her by surprise, but after the rolled it around her mind for a bit, she realized it hadn’t quite quelled her excitement. Rather, it prolonged the possibilities.  

Of course she had protested at first. The thin man was cold, unapologetic. _These are your orders._

She would not let him hear her react, would not let anyone in the offices think that she had anything in her heart but service to the president.

And so it was, and now she came with a _slightly_ different aim, a deviation in her mission.

 

Pulling up to the house, Melisandre let her men bluster out of the car. Let them make noise, let them try to intimidate. They knew their orders.

She would take her time. She would take an eternity, if she needed it.

She put her hands behind her back and walked calmly, steadily up to the door.

  


\--

  
  


The Jeep sped down a country road, roaring through ink black tree shadows into moonlit expanses, and then back into the black.

Jon was driving south, south, just as the old Bear had said to... _but it didn’t feel right._

He had been taught never to run away from danger. And here they were, fleeing; even on his former commander’s orders, it felt wrong.

Ygritte was a red and white ball of nerves sitting next to him.  She didn’t speak; she smoked cigarette after cigarette, red embers only visible to him as she inhaled, smoke wafting away in the dark.

_She didn’t want to go south either._

The lonely countryside, hours away from the water’s edge, was quiet, sparse.  A dark house would appear, squat, low; ready for winter, the threat of cold always looming in this northern plain and then vanish as they sped by, leaving scrubby woods or rolling plains, empty.

They still had a few hours to go to reach the southern edge of the Upper Peninsula and make their way even further south.

Jon wondered how far down they’d have to go.  He supposed he could call Jeor again...he supposed he could keep driving if he had to, if he needed to.  He stilled his impulse to turn back around, to go investigate, to just bury himself at Winterfell, dig in, fight.  His heart had stopped thumping; the actions of the Homeland security men had stopped impacting him so viscerally and he was able to think about the why, think about how this could have happened. None of this made sense.

He’d had to turn the radio off in frustration. Was hoping to hear something that would help him make sense of what had happened.  A report, maybe, or some news about local deaths, unheard-of mayhem in the upper peninsula. He flicked it from station to station, trying to glean something - but nothing.

It was all sanitized; he heard chirpy tones of propaganda, he recognized it.  His ears pricked when he finally heard a story about border security; he listened as the broadcaster carefully read some lines about the strength of the borders of the country, north and south, finally becoming impenetrable due to the president’s actions.  

When he heard the exact same sentence, verbatim, read on another station he frowned and turned it off.

He had tried not to follow the politics - as a Marine, he’d been blindly obedient, groomed to take orders and not question any of the driving forces that made the decisions.  It was easier that way; he didn’t have Arya’s rebellious streak to question everything, nor did he insulate himself from all of it like Sansa had, building his own universe.  He participated, as told.

_A good Marine._

So the actions of the Homeland Security men had at first puzzled him, and then enraged him, and then piqued his curiosity even as he fled them with Ygritte in tow and the memory of her father, shot, hanging over them.

And the actions of the Commander in Chief...beyond his comprehension.

They’d made it to the shore of Lake Michigan and Ygritte stirred from a fitful sleep beside him.  The sun was starting to rise over the lake’s great expanse. The sight of the water, vast as a sea, calmed him. Comforting. _We made it this far. Perhaps this is far enough._ Ygritte’s voice, gravelly from sleep and tears, reached his ears.

“Jon. Pull over. I want to see this.”

His wild darling, furthest south she’d ever been by an order of magnitude...of course she did.  It would be good to stretch his legs, good to touch this shore and know that they were physically, tangibly away from whatever force had been acting so malevolently.  

He pulled the jeep over off the highway and onto the sandy shore.  Desolate; scrubs of beachgrass clumped, and a few trees had made it to this side.  The sand was powdery fine; up on Superior the beach was made up of agate pebbles.  As Ygritte wobbled out, swearing at first, weak from sleep and sitting in the car for too long, she looked down and marveled at the strangeness of it, kicking her shoes off and putting her toes in the water.

He sat down on the sand and motioned her to him.

“D’you suppose this is like the Caribbean, all this sand?” Her arm snaked around him and he was glad for her question, so innocent, something aside from the looming questions in their mind.

He laughed onto the top of her head under his chin and held her tighter, her warmth, her wiry frame.  His, all his… _keep you safe._

“Ah, sweetpea, the Caribbean has more palm trees and less pines, but...yes.”  Her mouth was comfort, her mouth was the only thing that seemed to make sense.

They sat, watching dawn break over the water.

“You know I want to go back, don’t you.” She murmured into his ear. “I want to go back and make sure that they don’t take my land.  My da’s land. It was all that he had…”

He squeezed her.   _He did, too._ But they had driven all night, they were away, they were safe...at least long enough for him to catch his bearings, to figure out his next move.  He summoned Jeor Mormont’s words back into his memory to guide him.

_“Go south. Go south. You can stay at Winterfell for a day, maybe two, but get away from the border. That’s where they are. They’re closing the borders. Get further south, get in the middle of a mass of people. They won’t find you.”_

A mass of people.  Well, they’d _definitely_ have go go south for that.  The Mackinac bridge was about an hour from them, and then the little cities of northern Michigan - they’d have to drive for another eight hours to get to any city of import.

Later. He was so tired. Once his adrenaline had faded all he was left only with weariness. The sun had broken and the sky streaked brightly pink. Dark circles ringed Ygritte’s eyes.  They needed to rest.

He pulled her to her feet and they made their way back to the Jeep, driving further up the highway to pull off a dirt road deep into the trees. They’d sleep here for now.

Safely away from the northern border, on their way to the southern cities.

She nestled in further.  

They climbed into the backseat and held each other, closing their eyes against the rising sun.

  


\--

  


They’d been found. The Russians had come. The warm cocoon of their tangled embrace burst in an instant.

Things started to happen impossibly fast.

Jaqen’s last words to Aegon had finally registered and his face started to turn to stone as he looked at her.

“Your...bride…bride?”

She could see that Jaqen was rising, alert, his targets right outside. He paused in front of Aegon for the slightest moment and reached his mouth for Aegon’s impossibly lush lower lip; Jaqen’s mouth brushed it as if to silence him but Aegon pushed him angrily away, looking back and forth between Jaqen and Arya.

“You’re with...you’re with them. _Na huy…? Niegadzai…”_  Aegon swore, recoiling from them.

“We’re not with them. There is no time. _After_.” Jaqen’s voice was silk, polished steel. The closing of a car door and the sound of heels clicking on the marble pavers of the drive floated up to their room.

Arya flipped off the bed, suddenly, viscerally alert. _The fucking timing… Now Aegon knows, but we still haven’t told him anything…_

“You. You’re a fucking _witch_ , not a ghost. S _amozvanets_ _._ ” He hissed at her even she backed away from him; his eyes had narrowed, suspicious.

“Aegon. No. I’m so…” she kept moving as she whispered and then realized the hopelessness of explaining anything. Every second, every second mattered. _Fuck._ She put her hand above her breast, an oath; feeling her heart thump and nodded, once, quickly.. “I promise. Tell you. Later.”

 _Fuck. Fuck._ She reached down for the closest piece of clothing that she could find, tugging Aegon’s shirt over her head to cover her nakedness; it fell above her knees, almost comically long.  The men did the same, grabbing at whatever they could find; Aegon grabbing his pants, naked above the waist. Jaqen had worn looser pants, a nod to his fake identity; now his shirt open was above them, the soft golden trail of hairs visible above his waistband. He moved fluidly over to the wall and flattened himself against it, moving closer to the door of their room, putting his hand on the doorknob and listening against the wood.

She could hear, but it was heightened, she could hear the heavy sounds of footsteps up the drive, _one two three people three enemies!_ sound of thunking as they tried to push the front door in; a voice, Gaani’s yell, sounding so faraway. _Gaani.  Oh sweet Gaani, be safe..._ and then her thoughts turned again: _How had they gotten through the gated driveway?_

Gaani’s words came to her, even in a flash, and Aegon nearly jumped away from her as she fell to her knees to feel under the bed.   _Yes…._

_Found it._

Black steel in her hand, the grip of it, the heft of it comforting.

In an instant, it seemed, Jaqen was standing near her as she rose. A moment in time, frozen; she captured it in her head. _Beloved..._

The gun. She pressed it in his hands and for a heartbeat he stood there and gave her the slightest bow of his head and then he moved lithely, quickly past her back towards the door.

She scrambled behind him, against the wall and motioned for Aegon to fall in behind her. A sudden crack of the door giving way made her start.  

 _The fear, the fear was creeping in._  

She tried to shake it off. She reached behind her, finding Aegon’s hand and squeezing it just for a moment; he let her and at the end she felt his fingers tighten before they lost contact. _It might not all be lost..but later, stupid, later…_

Jaqen had twisted the knob noiselessly and started to slip through into the hallway. His face turned back to the two, a warning written on it: _stay here,_ he mouthed _._  He had slipped into his own self entirely. Confident, lithe grace; he moved effortlessly.

Aegon started to move behind her but she caught his hand again. “They’re after _you_. Stay here.”

That arrogance came back to his face and Arya saw his chin rise and he started to move towards the door.

“Stay here!” She hissed.

There was a coldness in his eyes when he first glanced down at her, something hard and she watched it open, soften back into a shadow of tenderness. He smoothed her hair quickly.

“Yes. They _are_ after me. Let them try.”

He pulled out a small gun, tucked from the pockets of his pants.  

His face shifted again and his mouth turned.  “Russia gives, and she takes. Perhaps not today, though.”

Arya watched him slip out.

_Fuck. Fuck._

Without a weapon, she was just a _liability_. She knew this. She dropped to her knees again to see what she could find; perhaps Gaani had left more than one weapon in this room.  She opened the closet, looked in drawers, quickly, quickly.

_Nothing._

A thought moved through her mind and before she could think again her feet were moving, quiet and still; she melted into the hallway and moved away from Jaqen and Aegon, the other direction.

To the study. The scythes, on the wall.

_She preferred a blade, anyways._

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much delay! 
> 
> sorry!


	43. darkness in you

 

It had been a long time since a man had needed to assume the identity of another.  It had been just as long, in fact, since he had needed to summon himself to violence against another.

Just so.  While immersing himself into another, taking on Anton’s face had taken thought, preparation...a man felt himself slip effortlessly into a predatory role.

 _Or that he hoped was predatory_.  He felt his face move quickly into a wry smile before his jaw set, again.  

The footfalls had stopped; Gaani was not making any noise and Jaqen sent a prayer up to the ether that nothing had befallen his beloved brother in the order, that nothing would happen to his girl.  He sensed her slipping up the hallway; good. Silent. She was still devastatingly lethal, the years had not taken that away from her. The trainings in the forest, martial arts in the home during winter...the gun ranges when possible.

Good.

Better.

A man stepped carefully along the wall. There were three...and a woman. The men had been careless at first, but the woman’s steps up the drive had sounded as deliberate as if she were walking through an office. She had made it inside as well.

So she felt protected by them, then. Jaqen wondered for a split second if she was armed as well. No matter. He would find out soon enough.

If only Varys had briefed him on the outside of this great, ugly house. He would send Aegon, send Arya outside, tell them to flee...but without knowing, he couldn’t tell them to go out of his sight. Cold consolation, the size of the house - they could potentially play cat and mouse for hours, if needed...

He tensed. _There, there they are._ About twenty feet away, quietly walking toward the other wing of the house, a slim redheaded woman behind them. Of course. Varys had said, _that woman…_ An ambush? He waved Aegon back and checked once, twice before making his way towards them and to turn off closer to where he’d heard Gaani yell.

He found him, found his brother, near the spinters of what was left of the front door; at first relieved, mercifully not bleeding - when he looked closer he felt the back of his neck prickle in fear. They had used some type of nerve agent on him; his eyes were open and he was twitching, fearful, unable to control his limbs. Jaqen saw a powdery residue on the floor near Gaani’s chest amongst the splintered wood of the door. He looked closer, wildly; it had only touched the man’s shoulder.

That was all it needed to touch, breathing it in could cause death, if it was what Jaqen suspected... _but if he was taken away from the source he may live_ ...Jaqen’s brain went on overdrive.   _Move him. Wipe his face. Pray._ Holding his breath and carefully moving away from the powder he pulled Gaani, spasming, recognition on his face but unable to speak, and dragged him ten feet away from the door, towards a great kitchen.

_Time, time is of the essence now…_

He reached into Gaani’s pocket and pulled out his phone, using Gaani’s finger to unlock it. Jaqen typed a message: _Varys - help. Now. Now._

Jaqen kissed the palm of his hand and pressed it to Gaani’s head, ripping a piece of his shirt and spitting on it to moisten it, wiped his brother’s face.  “Soon, my brother. Stay with us.”

And as he took another look at Gaani’s eyes, normally so kind but wild now, his limbs moving frightfully, he felt a wave of anger solidify his muscles.  

_This will not be._

The first one was simple, the first one was easy. The man, tall and drab, had made his way past the dining room, visible from the kitchen. Jaqen saw his path and moved towards him, shooting once before he could turn around.   _Needs to be a clean shot, as soon as this happens a girl is in trouble...and Aegon as well._ Jaqen took his weapon and the man staggered, fell; shot through his back, right through the heart.

Simple. Simple.

He pulled back into an alcove behind the door to the kitchen. The tile was bright blue, cold as he leaned up against it. The noise of the shot had stirred the rest of the house; Jaqen heard footsteps; it was one of the men, moving toward the kitchen; carefully, only moving once an area was cleared.  One man, by the sound of it.

_One more dead man._

_This hunt was clean, this hunt felt good; this hunt would save his girl and Aegon until Varys could spirit them away; Varys would come and Gaani would live..._ Jaqen ran these scenarios through his head and felt a preternatural calm even as the footsteps grew closer and he gripped his gun more tightly.   _Justice._

Jaqen waited until he heard the man’s steps resume and twisted out into the man’s sightline to shoot him.

_What is…._

Before he could pull the trigger a cloud of fine dust hit his face and he instantly felt his nerves start to hum and arc. He started to yell but felt his throat closing, closing, limbs moving outside of his control, the pain, the pain of all of it…he jerked on the floor, blue tile cold against a surging electric heat in his body...

_Oh Arya..._

\--

  


The shot had come from the front of the house. Fuck. Jaqen. Arya tensed as she heard it, gripping the scythes.   _Fucking ridiculous, gold like gaudy Ashgabat..._ each one was curved, rounded, the handles a few feet long.  “You stay here,” to Aegon, “fucking stay here, stay here!”

He cocked the safety on his gun and shook his head once. “Whoever you are, I do not mean to let you die because of me.”

His look was a mix of anger and worry and Arya bit her lip and moved forward.

Jaqen had turned, once he hit the threshold, turned _that_ way.. _.towards_...and then Arya saw the door, broken down, the sky glowing blue behind the gaping hole of it.   

And the disturbance of splinters on the ground, pushed aside, as if something had been pulled right through the middle of it.

 _Fuck. Fuck fuck._ She had to stop herself from running, to see if it was Jaqen. Was it Gaani. She’d run herself right to their deaths. _Around, then._ Arya signaled to Aegon and moved, silent as the night, back towards the hallways, looking quickly to see what she could find, and then down another branch that led towards the back gardens and back around towards the front of the house.

At least, mercifully, most of the doors were closed; the back hallway had a mustiness of something unused for a long time.  Aegon followed behind her; he had never been silent before, so the lightness of his steps was surprising.  She turned back to look at up him and his face kept that strange mix of anger and worry, the muscle in his cheeks tight, his eyes determined.

_He’s fighting for his life._

And so are we.

Closer to the front of the house and then she heard a noise, heard a voice.  A woman. She halted and watched as Aegon listened to the voice, words unintelligible, and a look of fury moved over his face.

He bent to her ear. _“Melisandre.”_

And then he moved into the lead and Arya could only follow behind him, as quiet as a shadow, while he burst into the room.

He fired when he crossed the threshold, fired and Arya saw a man, bent over a body, a strangely familiar _no Jaqen Jaqen no no no_ but he _moved!_ He still _moved!_ Something was not right - his movements were not familiar, he jerked...the man Aegon shot doubled over and blood splattered over Jaqen.

There was a woman, redhaired and beautiful, standing next to the man and she held up her arms.

And then she smiled at them.

Arya pulled her scythes and ran towards the red woman and Aegon made a strangled noise, deep in his throat, anguish.

“He’ll die, you know, if you do that.”  The red woman motioned to Jaqen’s form, writhing on the ground.

“Kill me, and you kill him.”  

Arya felt her blood rush away from her face and lowered the scythes.

Aegon’s voice was searing, angry. “Melisandre. You don’t want him.”

The red woman smiled again and Arya clenched the scythes.

“You’re right. I don’t want him. I want _you_ . But since he’s here...we decided to take a closer look at your friend.   _Jaqen H’ghar._ ” The name sounded like steam whistling from a kettle, her mouth closed after she said it and that smile again...oh Arya wanted to kill her…

“You don’t know who he is? We don’t either. And we intend to find out.  And you’re coming with us.  Lexy, take Mr. H’ghar to the car.  We will give him the antidote once he’s secured.  Aegon, we can make this easy, or hard.”

Another man stepped from the shadows and picked up Jaqen, _oh his limbs, his face!_ Arya stared at his face, his jaw slack, wheezing...and then she met his eyes.

_I love you, save you, I’ll save you from this…._

She thought quickly. Two men, two men accounted for, and this fucking red cunt...where is the third man?  She moved closer to Melisandre.  

The woman was unarmed.

Arya watched helplessly as Jaqen was carried out the door and a wave of rage washed over her, hot, bitter.  She raised the scythes closer to the woman’s face, that face, so beautiful…

“Remember. I die, and he dies. Aegon, are you coming?”

Something else was happening, some scuffle at the door and Arya heard a car door slam, and then another, and then footsteps rush in. _Is this it…. Is this more..._

But the look on Melisandre’s face was _surprise_ .   _She’s not expecting this._

_“Save” Jaqen. They’re going to take him and torture him...no…_

And then the rage came over her again and before she could stop herself, Arya raised the heavy scythe and slashed.

The weapon was heavy; she had only raised the one and it merely grazed the woman’s neck; blood dripped slowly from a red line and pooled in her collarbone, on either side of a red, sparkling necklace; the woman’s face contorted with rage.

Before she could react the footsteps made it into the room and suddenly she saw Varys, pudgy, elegantly holding a silver revolver, pointed at Melisandre.

“Arya. Gaani is dying up front. Jaqen is having what looks like a grand mal seizure, locked up in a car out front. And this...why this must be Melisandre, who I’ve heard so much about.”

Varys gestured with the weapon. “What exactly did you give to our poor Jaqen, Melisandre?”

The woman was still calm and the smile had returned to her face. “ _Novichok_ , dear sir. Just mixed enough to scramble the nerves. For now.”

A noise as Varys clicked the safety on his gun, holding back; this strange woman had bewitched the room, unarmed...

She turned back to look at Aegon again. “Now are you coming, or would you prefer to receive some yourself? Your lover has some. I’m always happy to give to you, too. I know you like to share.”

With this she looked at Arya, and then looked more deeply, stepping forward.

Arya could smell her, smoke and amber. The woman’s eyes probed hers.

“I see a darkness in you. We will meet again.”

And then her head jerked at a staccato firing of another gun, and Varys’ in response, and before Arya could move the red woman’s face had contorted and she’d moved more quickly than Arya had thought possible.

And then Arya felt a blazing hot pain on her leg, and Aegon had knelt to catch her before she hit the floor, and the red woman had vanished.

And taken Jaqen with her.

 

\--

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chaps, people, that's what I got right now. : )
> 
> Is that what you expected?
> 
> Edited to add 11/21: I haven't abandoned this! I just don't have "the flow" right now and don't want to write anything that doesn't feel right - but I've been bulleting out chapters, ideas. Some tricky action scenes are on the way and I want to make sure that they are correct...and also, get through a massive, brain-sucking project at work. See you soon! xo


	44. Chapter 44

Aegon’s rage was molten, coursing through every blood vessel, propelling him to run outside once the gunshots went off.

 

_Too late, too late. Fucking Melisandre was gone.  With Anton._

_Anton_...whoever the hell he was…

His fury compounded and he watched helplessly as the car drove off.

The last image of the man was seared in his head, his limbs twitching and jerking as the poison took effect.

_Who was he and why had he come to him..._

He walked back into the house, he passed that servant, twitching as well; he picked him up and brought him to the couch...realizing that the girl, his girl...that _Thalia_ had seemed to have a strange attachment to...the man’s dark skin was slick with sweat, his limbs moved unbidden and his eyes had rolled up into his head.

_This man was in on it, too, whatever it was...that would explain her easy encounters with him..._

He couldn’t think yet without wanting to scream, he could only move, and everything seemed to happen in double time, sped up; the servant was on the couch; the pudgy man glided over the floor to him; over near the dead body of one of Melisandre’s thugs Thalia was bleeding but doggedly trying to stand, her chin jutting out, tears streaming from her eyes...that ridiculous gold scythe on the ground, barely marked with blood; she’d gotten a bullet in her thigh for the trouble.  

_And who the fuck was she?….what was it Anton had called her? And...married...married!... to Anton??_

Nothing made sense, _nothing_...he couldn’t reconcile the two of them as cons, they didn’t have the stink of Russia on them, they couldn’t have been connected to the Kremlin…

“Someone had better tell me what is going on here.” His voice came out louder than he’d planned, and he raised his chin when he looked down at Thalia... _Ava...Ana.._ .she’d been called something else by _him_ ; by...her...husband?

“You. And why the fuck are _you_ here. Who the fuck are _you._ ”  He couldn’t let himself soften for her; she was a spy of a different type than the redheaded cunt; oh Melisandre would pay…

But he couldn’t help himself, he felt himself thaw when those big grey eyes looked down guiltily and then up at him, the tears never stopping.   _Ghost. Witch. Mine._

She didn’t say anything, and he felt his gaze burn into her eyes even as in the background he heard the pudgy man rustle around in a briefcase, the clinking of little glass bottles...the man unstoppered one and put a finger in the jaw of the servant, pouring the jar down his throat, almost humming a melody like one would give a child with their medicine.

_Too much. This was too much._

She sniffled.

Two grey eyes looked up at him; with obvious effort she straightened and he could see the blood streaming from her wound, blood splattered on his own shirt, pooling down her ankle and running down her toes.  The fat man and the servant were moving behind him;  in his peripheral vision he could see the servant start to cough, his limbs slow their frenetic twitching; his mind flicked back to her.

“I said. _Who are you_. And why are you here.”

He felt the words drip from his mouth, acid. _Must not give in..._

She pulled herself to her full height; she was so tiny, so fierce, her body covered by his own shirt.  And her chin came out again, that beautiful little face, milkskin like a field of new snow; it looked up at him and did not flinch as she said the words.

“My name is Arya Stark. _Lyanna_ Stark was my aunt. My husband - Jaqen - is dying in a car driving to who the hell knows where.  And if you want to know why we’re here...well...that’s a good question for Varys.”  He saw her face harden as she said that name and she pointed over to the fat man.

He felt his consciousness take in the words that she had said; his mind moved too quickly to stick to any one stimuli; _Stark, husband, Varys_ …Lyanna.

_Lyanna Stark. Come to haunt him..._

_Too much._ Frenzy overtook him. He could feel himself melting, feel himself start to lose the rage that he held for her, for tricking him...for whatever it was that she had done to him, done to his head.

He spun to look at the man, his head bald, dressed in almost Eastern clothing; the man looked up from the darker man, who had started coughing and starting to control his own limbs again.

The bald man gave a tender pat to the dark man upon seeing him start to recover and walked with delicate steps over to Anton and in a feminine voice started to speak.

“My name, Aegon, is Varys. Enchanted, although our meeting could have taken place over more auspicious circumstances, I suppose.”

The man must have seen the rage, the rage again coming to his face and so he spoke again quickly.

“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help. Well, now we are. But we have to get moving, and we’ve got plenty of time to tell you every single little detail.  We need to follow Melisandre.”

 _Here to help!_  Aegon couldn’t stop a growl from coming out of his mouth, his hands clenched involuntarily.  Here to help!

“Yes, I can see that…” Aegon hissed.

The fat man, Varys, paused and looked at him, moving closer.  Aegon could almost smell the fear coming off of him, fear wrapped in the smell of lavender, sharp…

Varys tried again. “You are coming with us, are you not?  As I understand it, she’ll be taking him to Sochi.  Your plane can get us there, no?”

The silence of the room was suddenly cut by the sound of the man coughing, from the couch.

 _H_ _alyavshchik._ He swore to himself and the sound of Arya’s...Arya Stark’s...attempt to walk moved him.  He turned to her and caught her, bending down to examine the blood coming out of her knee.  He reached for the shirttail that was hanging and ripped it, suddenly; she did not flinch at his movement.

Kneeling, he wrapped the fabric around her thigh in a makeshift tourniquet. He was aware that the shirt now barely brushed against the bottom of her sex. He could smell her.  She did not move as the pressure was applied; her skin was torn but it appeared that the bullet had only grazed her.  Lucky.  

“We don’t need a doctor. But yes, we need the plane.  And you -” he pointed first at this Varys, and then at Arya, Arya Stark, whose grey eyes were still tearing - “you two will tell me, everything, and tell me the truth.  Or my plane leaves you somewhere quite inconvenient.”

He saw her nod, slightly. Not enough. “And your...your _husband_ …” he could feel his mouth curl into a grimace “...your _husband_ suffers at the hand of Melisandre in Sochi.”

Her husband. Of course. He thought of the two of them, tangled up together; he’d known there was some connection there, stupid fool! He had been so intoxicated that his cock had taken over his senses.  Foolish.   

“I see now that you’re not a ghost, come to visit me. No, a witch, come to wreck me.”  He looked down at her and saw her face, and felt himself twitch, again.  That face...that face, why was it so compelling to him?  He softened his words.  “Or an angel, come to save me?”  

The fat man had slid into efficiency, nodding his head.  “Yes, I think that it’s certainly a fair trade.  Jaqen for the truth. There is less and little time to waste, though - call your pilot and tell him to prepare.  And,” he giggled, “let’s put some clothes on Miss Arya. She might cause a bit of a scene, walking through the airport like that.”

Aegon looked over. Arya had leaned up against the arm of a chair and the very bottom of the pink lips of her vagina were visible to him, curving up against the top of her thighs.

“Fuck you, Varys.”  She spat the words.

“Yes, always good to see you, Arya.  Let’s get something for the pain. A flesh wound, you’ll be fine.”

Varys moved over to where he’d left his suitcase, fishing around until he found a vial; shaking it in  his hands he moved the tourniquet out of the way and rubbed some of the contents on her wound.  It was an ugly gash; Aegon thought momentarily that there might be a scar, just up from her knee, where the soft skin started to get softer over the smooth muscle of her haunches….he shook his head.

The breath flew out of her mouth in a hiss, passing through her teeth as Varys doctored her, and then he pulled the tourniquet up, satisfied.  “A little morphine, topical. We’ll get you stitched up later. You’ll be fine.”

Arya exhaled and flexed her toes on the injured leg; staring down at them she mumbled, words tumbling like gravel.

“If Jaqen fucking dies, Varys, I will kill you myself, and slowly.”

The tears came streaming down more quickly now, and Aegon reached out to comfort her. He had to. Witch, ghost, angel...he brushed the tears off of one cheek and kissed the top of her head.  

“I think I might have to help you. Knives...or the scythe? Your preference.” He joked a bit with her and when he saw her face soften, but her eyes still full of tears he hugged her head against him.

“Now. Your suitcase...or was that Thalia’s suitcase?  Let me get it, we will dress you.  Fat Varys. Look in the first bedroom up that hall.”

He barked out orders and then realized his phone...where had he left it...right next to the laptop that he had just been sitting with….Jaqen...looking over the pipeline.

The pipeline! He had forgotten.  A fresh flash of anger moved through him.

“And quickly.  I’m looking forward to hearing your version of the truth, once we’re on the plane.”  He felt his jaw stiffen and he stood up, stood up to call his plane and move himself out of this nightmare and into another.

\--  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Killing time. That’s all she was doing. Killing time, waiting for some flashpoint that might never come.  Sansa moved robotically through her flat.

A tuneless song, trilling and humming out of her mouth, was the only sound to be heard as she moved through room by room, cleaning without thinking, until she got closer to Willas’ study.   _Dum de dum la la loooo…._

The low hum of the aquarium by his desk was making a buzzing noise as if the water was too low.  Sansa knew he was in there; that’s where he stayed, most of the time, when he was home.  Now.  He’d have never allowed the water to get that low before; he would have never showed up with his hair disheveled; his eyes had never been bloodshot.   _Before._ Before he’d grabbed her, before his outburst. Before she realized that she didn’t love him.

It was strange that they had both surrendered without a fight, after he’d done it. He had withdrawn almost completely, shuffling through the house and avoiding her gaze when they happened to be in the same room.

She felt inhuman. Devoid. For weeks. She was sure he felt the same way.  

She hadn’t talked to Petyr, either; she blocked his number.  She needed out, she needed away, she needed out of her own head.

She paused by the door and then continued on to the small bathroom that was just off his study.  She flicked the lights on; she hadn’t been in here for ages, _likely needs straightening._

She pulled the towels down and put them into the hamper; fresh towels were spread out on the bar.  Blue, blue with white edging.  There. One of Willas’ shirts was on the floor, that went into the hamper, too.   _La la looooon, dum dum…._

The medicine cabinet door was ajar, wouldn’t close.  She opened it to straighten the contents.

And stared.

Orange prescription bottles stared out at her; not one, not ten...likely close to twenty bottles.  Three of them spilled out into the sink when she opened the door. _What was this?_

She picked one up and stared at it.

_Oxycontin._

Fucking Willas was drugging himself.

She grabbed the bottles, processing in her head, moving again automatically. _La la looooooo._

Each bottle fell into the small garbage can and she tied it shut, moving out into the hall and towards the door to the garage.   _Laloooo, laloooo….._

The garbage can snapped shut and with the noise Sansa blinked.  She walked back into the house and washed her hands methodically; finger by finger and then started over again.

Silently - the tune was now just in her head - she walked over to her laptop and typed into the search bar.   _The one...the best one…the one that would befit a Tyrell...yes...by the ocean._

She made a phone call, murmuring, looking furtively up the hall for footsteps that would not come; he was shut into his office, she knew his habit.

Instead she went to him, once her call was done.

The door wasn’t locked, it opened smoothly and Sansa stepped in and sucked her breath in.  Willas was staring up at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open, laid out on the guest bed.  He barely moved when he saw her.  His hair was spread out underneath him, his shirt unbuttoned.

“Willas.” She tried not be sharp, but when he didn’t answer she reached down and shook him.  “Willas.”

“You’re going to rehab. A car is on the way. You need to straighten yourself out.”

She reached down to his face as her words started to register; she touched his cheek, softly, even though she felt nothing, she felt nothing, nothing, nothing.

She whispered, even though she knew the words wouldnt matter.  “And I’m going to London, alone, just for a bit.”

 

_Time for her own escape._

 

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey. sorry. so busy, and likely rusty, too. funny, because P commented about an Aegon POV, and I really wasn't planning on writing one. but then it just seemed to make sense for it to come exactly now - because, of course, jaqen has been kidnapped. so, anyhow - take this little meager offering and here's hoping that the writing inspo gods smile upon me more frequently.


	45. Chapter 45

Darkness, the darkness had taken him, and soon it would take his arms and legs that did not stop thrashing, take the throat that had swollen up, his fingers twitching, his toes that had stiffened.  

An intense pain roiled him; again and again he felt waves of it, each one ending with a spasm of limbs. His skin felt like it was peeling; the ties around his wrists and ankles felt like barbed wire to his skin.

He was going to die, die right now, and there was nothing he could do about it, he couldn’t fight, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t scream.  A man would die, in an unfriendly country, with strangers that wanted to feast their eyes on his death; a man would die, trembling and cowering in pain from the strange powder they had flung upon his skin. 

That was the worst, where it had hit him; he had bitten his tongue from the shaking and could feel blood down his face, or maybe it was tears; but the pain on his skin tore through him, broke him, and each pinpoint nerve ending on his skin was on fire.

His eyes rolled and he saw her, he saw her for an instant before his eyes disobeyed him and rolled up to the ceiling.  

The ceiling.  Of a car. They’re taking him somewhere….a man would die alone. 

Somewhere under the layers of pain and movement, the ticking of limbs and the incessant drumbeat of blood rushing through skin he felt a sadness, somewhere underneath this he felt a longing, his last time to see her she had defended him, the scythes in her hands roiling elegantly; oh lovely girl a man is so sorry….a girl was right….

Sounds rushed by him; he could hear bits of her conversation with her driver, heated but her voice never boiled over; the driver was angry, the one man left alive.  _ One too many.  _ If only he could control his limbs he would rip that man’s head off... but they were moving, moving…he felt a rush of warmth, he had pissed himself...

Then, fire, something touched him, something hot; a cigarette, was she burning him?  When his eyes moved down again he saw that it was her, just her fingers, and the heat emanated from them as she touched a man’s face, and then that hot poker finger was teasing around his mouth and he heard a laugh from her, bitter, angry; he tried, he tried so hard to zero in on the sound of her voice.  His body betraying him, the senses moving like a carousel, nothing in the same place….when he realized again what he was feeling he tried, with all his might, to move...move towards her, move to somehow stop her, bound and tied and poisoned with a fucking nerve agent.. _.agony _ …

And then those hot fingers again, prying his mouth open, and he felt a bitter taste in his throat; it seared the cut on his tongue, and as it went down his throat he felt a wave of...stillness...the antidote...he had been given the antidote….

His limbs slowed, slowed and the jerking stopped; the red woman started to wipe his face off; his eyes started to slow and focus and he was able to look up at her, at her face, intently staring at him, angry.

“Should have killed you when I first saw you. You were a distraction even then.”  Her face twisted into a bitter smile; he coughed, and coughed and opened his eyes again to see her smile, bitterly. 

“You don’t like the taste of the anthropine?  Saved your life. Not my choice. None of this. Not my choice to save you, not my choice to take you, either.”  She shrugged and turned her head; Jaqen could feel his limbs slowing, slowing; he was able to move them at will to a point - she had bound him, tied him.  He caught her face in profile; she was pretty, for all of her wrath; strangely colored, dark red hair and pale skin, her eyes almost the same color as her hair. 

He moved his tongue to speak and thought the better of it; let her tell him, now.  He remembered her face when he’d met her with Aegon; the possessiveness, the irritation... _ Aegon...Aegon now alone with Arya... _

The puddle he’d created must have seeped over to her because she scooted quickly further towards the car’s window, and looked at him again with distaste.  

“Disgusting. All men. You piss and you shit and you cum. And yet he still chose you...hmm.  Well, you’ve either got a story to tell me, or you’ll die. Or you’ll bring Aegon to me, or you’ll die. Then we get your blood as well...not just... _ this. _ ”  Her nose wrinkled and she shouted something up to the front seat, harsh consonants punctuating the air.

He could breathe again. A man could feel his heart now, just beating, slowing from the erratic, frantic pace of the nerve agent. The shaking had stopped although his skin still burned.  He took a deep breath in, tried to move his wrists, tied up as they were. One arm, the other. Back...forth...

The driver had slowed the car down, and passed a piece of fabric back to the woman.  Melisandre, he thought, tasting the name.  It tasted like smoke and blood and amber and her impossibly hot fingers were on him again, wiping his face off with the cloth and then putting it down to soak up his urine. 

“You are a distraction, and a problem. And now you’re my problem, but I’m not going to sit in your piss for the next hour.” She looked down at him, saw  his arms moving, his wrists rubbing together against the ties. 

She frowned, and a man saw her pretty face change; her eyebrows went up and the little heart shape seemed even more pronounced.  His memory flashed; he’d seen that look on Arya’s face, oh his lovely bride... _ you were right _ ….She sighed, almost wearily; reaching into the bag that held the antidote she pulled some thin plastic.  

_ Fuck. Zip ties.  _

She wrapped them around his wrists and pulled, pulled tightly. He couldn’t move, he was caught in an unnavigable position.   _ Amateur. _ Shouldn’t have let her seen him.  When the last tie was pulled tight she smiled at him and then turned away, looking out the window. 

After a moment he allowed some of his focus to fall off of her.  His body was moving normally now; aside from the searing pain that remained on his skin and through some of his muscles he felt almost whole again.  

He let himself slip into meditation, just for a moment.  Clear his mind, and the answer would come. 

The answer that would bring him back, back to bride, back to freedom. He must find it. 

He closed his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little mini-chap, but I'm gonna post em as they come to me, just in case I hit another wall. voila jaqen's POV at the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go again.  
>  
> 
> And big ups to LadyGrey81, who betas for me whenever I can hold myself back from posting immediately. : )  
> Updates could be sporadic - lots of new characters to figure out, new places to research, new relationships to puzzle through.  
> Your feedback is incredibly motivating and much appreciated; the fanfic writer's payment, so to speak.


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